


I Never Really Knew

by MaryBarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baby Watson lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic-ish, Character Death, Dubious Science, Eventual Fluff, Fix-it fic, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inexperienced Sherlock, Jealous John, M/M, Not John or Sherlock or Anyone Nice, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, TJLC-inspired, dubious medicine, love and communication, post-tab, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryBarton/pseuds/MaryBarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NOW complete with fluffy epilogue :)</p><p>--</p><p>A fix-it fic that picks up right at the end of TAB.<br/>John follows after Sherlock, hoping to find answers about Moriarty, the drugs, the meaning of life, everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, and this is neither beta read nor Brit-picked. EDIT: epilogue beta-ed by Silvergirl
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome. 
> 
> This is my first fanfic, I hope you enjoy it :)

John watches as Sherlock enters the shiny black car. There's a beat before the door closes sharply behind him, as if waiting for John to make a move, a choice. 

But John's choice is already made. It was made months ago, really, and the events of today only cemented it, sharpened his resolve. Seeing Sherlock brought so low, lost and confused. Near death, again. It has been clarifying. Not that things weren't clear before, but he feels a new urgency now. They can't go on like this. The baby is coming soon ; he'll have to talk to Sherlock and settle things once and for all. He won't have an addict around his newborn daughter. 

Right now, he has to go home with Mary. 

Mycroft steps out of the plane in his turn and only sighs when he sees the black car driving away. He looks at the aide at his back who immediately takes out a phone. John estimates that another car will be here in less than four minutes. 

He turns to Mary :  
"Are you all right? Standing like that? Let's get you home as soon as possible, hum?"

"What about you?" 

"I have to– Moriarty kidnapped me, nearly killed me, and well. He was a pretty shitty human being all around. Sorry baby, don't listen to your dad," he says, stroking Mary's belly. She laughs. "I want to get to the bottom of this, if possible. Do you mind if I try and go help the Holmes brothers for a bit, after settling you at home?"

Mary frowns a little, jams her hands into the pockets of her red coat. 

"No but– What can you do really? Between their intellects and Mycroft's resources…" She sighs. 

"I'm his conductor of light," John wants to say, "I keep him right, he'd be lost without me. He IS lost without me. Didn't you see?" 

What he says instead is, "well, you know me, I can't just sit on my hands." 

In any case, he doesn't know how true any of it is anymore. He winces and looks into the pale sun, squinting. 

Mary sighs again. "Pay attention to your phone, at least. I'm thirty-five weeks along, you know." 

"Of course," he says, trying to make his thin smile placating. "I know. Don't worry, there's no way I'd leave you alone for the birth of our daughter." He punctuates his words with a peck on her lips. She smiles at him. 

"Well, you don't have to accompany me. The sooner you start, the sooner you'll be home. Go with Mycroft, I'll take a cab."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Watson," says Mycroft smoothly, appearing at her elbow. "Take the next car. Your husband and I will only have to wait a few minutes more."

"Thank you, Mycroft," John says. 

Mycroft inclines his head. "Don't mention it. It is my privilege to look after the Watson ladies."

A gust of cold wind interrupts their conversation. John shivers and burrows into his jacket, scanning the horizon impatiently. At his side, Mycroft appears unaffected. 

 

A few minutes later, Mary bundled away into a departing car, Mycroft turns to him. "Will you be–" He hesitates, uncharacteristically. "Where do you want to be driven?"

"Baker Street," John answers immediately. "Unless you need me for something? To get the ball rolling on Moriarty?"

Mycroft's scoff is not unkind. "No, I'll handle things at the office. I'd much rather bring you to Sherlock." A pause. "He'll certainly be glad to have–" Another pause. "A doctor with him."

John looks up at him and smiles, humourless but trying for sincere. He looks around. The aide is at a respectful distance and the next car is not in sight yet. Now is probably the only time there won't be anyone else in earshot. 

John clears his throat. "Do you think he meant to– Oh God, I can't even say it. Did he know what he was doing?" he asks. "With the drugs?" In case it wasn't clear.

"Are you really asking me if Sherlock Holmes, of all people, understood the effects of this particular cocktail of drugs?"

"All right, yeah, of course. But he didn't seem– He was really coherent there at the end. He must have changed his mind halfway through, then."

Mycroft taps the end of his umbrella on the tarmac. "It seems much more likely to me that he was interrupted, and had every intention to finish what he'd started at the first available occasion."

"God, Mycroft." John bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "And now I want to punch you again. Can't you at least give me this? I mean, he wouldn't have— He—he couldn't. Could he?"

Mycroft looks at him from the corner of his eyes. "Are you sure it's me you want to punch? I would advise you, Doctor, to wait until you have every information at your disposal before going around hitting people. It would make for a refreshing change." His tone is icy, and John turns sharply to him, but his face is, of course, unreadable.

"What do you mean? What possible excuse could he have? Leaving to play spy around the world. Again. Give me one good reason not to punch his lights out as soon as he's recovered."

"Why wait ? It certainly didn't stop you last time." Then Mycroft winces, very slightly, but John is looking right at him and he sees it, the minute regret. 

"What–"

"Don't, Doctor Watson. If you have any questions about my brother, direct them to him, would you? It is not my place to say what he would or should have done."

"It never seemed to stop you before," John grumbles. But he drops the subject, knowing he won't get anything out of Mycroft now that his guard is up. 

 

When John is dropped off in front of 221b, he hesitates on the pavement for a full minute, trying to organise his thoughts. It's late morning and the street is quiet. The few passers-by are in a hurry to get somewhere away from the cold, leaving him free to mumble a bit to himself. Finally, with a decided nod, he walks to the door, opens it, and takes the stairs two at a time. 

The sight that greets him upstairs stops him on the threshold. The winter sun barely illuminates the scene through the half-pulled curtains and the dust floating in the air. The flat looks tidy but neglected, very different from the way they left it before Christmas. Mrs. Hudson must have come by, but not recently. And in the middle of the room, looking incongruous in all the quiet and stillness, Sherlock is seated in his chair. His long legs are folded in front of him, and he's giggling at his phone. John hadn't realised until that moment that he expected Sherlock to look contrite in private, or, at the very least, awkward. Not snorting happily at a screen. He slams the door shut behind him and Sherlock looks up, his smile fading at whatever he sees on John's face. 

In the ensuing silence, Sherlock phone moans, "ahhhhh!" 

Whatever speech John had prepared, whatever caution Mycroft had managed to impart flies right out the window and he starts yelling. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS HAPPENING? Are you actually texting Irene Adler, huh? Does no one ever stay dead? IS THAT WHY YOU THINK IT'S OKAY TO TRY AND KILL YOURSELF ALL THE FUCKING TIME? Sherlock, I SWEAR TO GOD, if you don't start explaining EVERYTHING right now!"

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Ahhhhh!" goes his phone. And again. And again. Sherlock looks down at it. Another moan rings through the air. John inhales sharply through his nose.

"Give me that," he says, striding up to Sherlock and grabbing the phone out of his hands. The screen displays a text conversation.

\- So. Did you? Miss me, that is?  
\- Thank you for that. You certainly got me out of a tricky situation. -SH  
\- Is a 'thank you' all I get? How about dinner?  
\- Pardon me if I sound ungrateful, but doesn't that simply make us even? -SH  
\- No, no, no. You were making us even when you saved me from the consequences of your actions. I was simply being a good friend. 

"What does it mean?" John asks, waving the phone. "Irene Adler was the one behind the video? Because you were the one who saved her? There's no Moriarty, then?"

"Are you going to have dinner?" He almost adds, but catches himself in time.

Sherlock hums. "Read on."

\- Whatever we are, I'm not sure friends is the appropriate term. -SH  
\- What about your real-life best friend, then? I bet he'll be happy with me. And grateful. Maybe we can all have dinner.  
\- I don't think so. -SH  
\- It wouldn't be safe for you in London. -SH  
\- I suppose you're right. Too bad.  
\- All joking aside, you should be careful. The video might be a fake, but I'm not so sure the content is off the mark. I've been hearing a lot of strange rumours, and some of it sounds really familiar.  
\- I can't really say more, but here, it should give you a place to start looking.  
\- attachment: picture.jpg  
\- Sherlock? Is everything all right?  
\- ?

The conversation ends there. John types a reply painstakingly. 

\- Sherlock is fine. What kind of rumours? -SH  
\- Oh hello, Dr. Watson. I hear congratulations are in order. She must really be something special to supplant our dear Sherlock in your affections.  
\- Although I understand he was absent when you met?

John grits his teeth. 

\- What kind of rumours? -SH  
\- My, my. Still as impatient as ever, I see. I'll leave you and Sherlock to do some sleuthing. Just like old times! No need to thank me.  
\- I wasn't about to. Why so cryptic? -SH

John waits a few seconds but no answer comes. 

\- If you really want to help, why not tell us more? -SH

He tries again. 

\- Is Moriarty alive? -SH

Still nothing. Sherlock comes to stand at his back to read the exchange over his shoulder. 

"Don't bother, she must have already ditched her phone," he tells John matter-of-factly. 

"You two do that a lot, do you?" John asks, turning on him. 

"She checks in from time to time." Sherlock frowns. "Why are you angry? I thought you would be glad I didn't let her die. Wasn't it the right thing to do?"

"DO. NOT. GET ME STARTED ON THE RIGHT THING TO DO!" 

John takes a long breath, trying to calm himself. He looks Sherlock in the eyes. The hurt and confusion he sees there for a brief second douse his anger like nothing else could have, leaving only grief. 

"Sherlock... You swore to me remember? To always be there. But– That list. If you'd taken all that, you'd be–" He takes a shaky, painful breath. "Why? I don't understand."  
Sherlock turns away silently, going to the window. 

"Please, talk to me. Your brother said–"

"What did that smarmy busybody say?" But the words are flat, lacking their usual venom. 

"He said you might have reasons…"

Sherlock looks at him steadily over his shoulder.

"Well, obviously you have reasons," John continues, awkwardly, "but he seemed to think I need to hear them."

Sherlock shrugs. "I doubt it would make much difference. I don't imagine the ramblings of a drug addict would change your mind."

"Change my mind about what?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock says turning back to look out the window. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a mind reader."

John inhales. "Stop. I know what you're trying to do. But I'm serious, I'll listen. You've never thought of yourself as a drug addict. Or at least that's what you said to me. Was it all rubbish?"

Sherlock shakes his head, now looking somewhere at the ground. 

"So what happened? Why did you take all that? And don't say it was to go into your mind palace or some crap about the case, I know you began before the plane even took off."

"John–"

"And Mycroft also implied that I hurt you some other time you where high? Were you high when you came back from— Wherever you went for two years."

Sherlock looks up, startled. "Did Mycroft say I was high?"

"Well, he implied you were recovering."

Sherlock expression clears. "Oh, and you assumed from drugs. Logical."

"What?"

Sherlock takes a few steps towards him, his expression soft, almost pleading. "John, you're right. I need to explain a lot of things to you." He raises a hand to his hair and drags it through his curls, looking agitated. "I recently realised that I was wrong–very wrong–to think that you were– That we were better off if I kept certain informations from you." He sighs, the admission visibly difficult. 

"Well, better late than never," John barks, then immediately regrets it. "Sorry. Let's sit down, all right? I'm listening."

He sits in his chair, but Sherlock begins to pace in front of the sofa. "The thing is, John, we don't really have time for a heart to heart right now," he says, trying to sound imperious, but falling wide off the mark. "Someone is going to be here any minute with–"

As if on cue, he's interrupted by a knock on the door. 

John lets his head drop in his hands and groans loudly. "Come in!" he yells. 

A man in a dark blue suit enters the room, and holds out a thin black tablet to Sherlock. "From your brother, sir. He said to tell you 'hoc voluerunt.'"

Sherlock grabs the tablet without a word and whirls away, tapping on the screen. The man sent by Mycroft is already gone. John settles in his chair, preparing to wait for Sherlock to finish his analysis of the documents. Sherlock, however, stops pacing abruptly. 

"John!" he calls. "Here, have a look." He walks up to the chair and crouches on the ground right next to it. He tilts the screen of the tablet towards John. "This is the image Irene sent earlier."

John looks down to see the photo of a dirty store window, visibly a bookshop, with text written in several languages directly onto the glass. He stares at it for a few seconds, but can discern nothing of importance. 

"Can I?" he asks, pointing at the screen. 

"Of course," Sherlock answers, raising the tablet a bit for easier access. 

John swipes left several times, scrolling through several cropped and enlarged portions of the previous picture. The files concentrate mainly on the lines of text, each one translated and annotated below. John tries to concentrate on them, conscious that these are enough to worry Sherlock, Mycroft and Irene, the three most intelligent people he knows. But he's distracted by Sherlock, who is waiting patiently for him to finish, who says he wants to answer John's questions. This strange, new version of Sherlock, whose curls tickle the skin at the back of his hand, whose pale eyes, trained on John's face, are open and trusting. 'Mary,' John thinks, 'Moriarty. Focus.'

"Go on," he says to Sherlock, "tell me. What does it all mean?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock launches into a complicated explanation about book titles, rare editions, and hidden messages. Sherlock himself, however, is still distracting John ; the Doctor in him trying to read his state from the tint of his skin, the friend worrying about the timbre of his voice and the tremors in his hands. Still, he manages to follow the gist of it. From what he understands, a) the explanation needn't have been so convoluted, and b) smugglers are communicating informations to potential clients via the windows of a shop selling used and rare books. 

"So you see," Sherlock is saying, "the language indicates the country of origin, the number of copies how many are available, and the publication date is obviously the date of birth."

John's mind snaps back from his contemplation of Sherlock's nails—were they ever so short and ragged?–all his attention now on his last words. 

"Date of birth? Whose date of birth?"

"Human trafficking, John, focus," Sherlock replies, snorting. But John, close and intent, catches the small unhappy downturn of his mouth. 

"And the idea is as revolting to you as it is to me, isn't it?" John asks.

Sherlock blinks. Then he frowns. "Well, obviously. Only an organization of substantial size, lead by someone of high intelligence and with a lot of experience could pull off this kind of operation, especially in that region. It's no wonder Irene–"

"I'm not talking about Irene," John interrupts, "I'm talking about you. You're not just worried about Moriarty or his copy cat, you're worried about the people behind the book titles."

Sherlock stands up abruptly from his crouch and begins pacing again. "I already told you, John. Don't make me out to be a hero. You'd be disappointed."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. And caring won't help them." John stands too, placing himself in Sherlock's path. "But it doesn't mean that you don't." He's glimpsed something important and he doesn't want to let it go. 

Sherlock stops in front of him. "John, I don't–"

"Oh, but you do." John says steadily. 

Sherlock looks at the floor. "Even if I did care, I don't want to. It's useless and handicapping."

"You really believe that?" 

"I–" Sherlock searches John's face, before looking down again. "I did, yes. But recent data has made me re-examine the issue." He takes a deep breath. "However, I still don't see how caring about the victims will help them. I'll continue to try hard to maintain my objectivity." He raises his chin, looking defiant, and, John thinks, maybe a little afraid. 

"Sherlock," John sighs, "it's perfectly normal to want to distance yourself from terrible things, even more so when it's part of your job. Doctors do it all the time, otherwise we wouldn't be able to function."

"You do? Really?"

John nods firmly. 

Sherlock blinks a few times. "Then... Why were you so angry with me?"

"What? When?"

Sherlock waves his hands agitedly. "When Moriarty was strapping bombs to people. You– you said…"

"Oh God, Sherlock." It was so long ago, but the conversation–the fight, really–is still fresh in John's memory. In Sherlock's too, apparently. "It's just, you were enjoying it so much, treating it as a game, and– No, you know what? I was the one. I was the one stressed and feeling out of his depth. And you were matching Moriarty step by step, and I felt– I don't know, angry. You were being a right ass, honestly," John chuckles, trying to release the tension threatening to crush his lungs, "but you did nothing wrong. You saved all these people." He looks in Sherlock's eyes as he says it, trying to let all his admiration and regret show. 

Sherlock looks back at him for a few long seconds, still and focused. God, they're standing so close. Then he drops his gaze and smiles shyly. "Speaking of people to save."

"Yes, yes!" John clears his throat and shifts, coming to stand at Sherlock's side. He jerks his chin towards the screen. "So, how do we know they're not simply book titles." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward, his patented 'why must I be burdened with all this mediocrity?' look, but they're both smiling. 

"Look at the dates, John. The books are advertised as first editions, but only the older ones are genuine. The ones advertised as contemporary classics were never in print those particular years. Some weren't even written until a few years later. One could be an honest mistake, but not all. They're here to indicate ages." 

The thought is sobering. John gasps, "Look at some of these numbers. If you're right–"

"I am. Mycroft had the intelligence checked by some of his people."

"Then what are we waiting for? We have to do something!"

"'We' are not going to do anything. You can't leave England right now."

"What if Mycroft–"

"Mycroft can't replace your– stabilising presence." 

John's back goes ramrod straight and he fixes his gaze to the wall ahead. "Are you going?"

"No, if Irene is right and this is a Moriarty situation, we can't show our hand. The local police is going to receive a VERY anonymous tip." He fiddles with the tablet in his hands. "Besides, I find that I am reluctant to leave, now that I have been given a second, or rather a third, chance."

John is unable to look away from the wall, feeling ready to burst with things to say and questions to ask, but incapable to begin.

Before he can choose, and force himself to say one of the seemingly hundreds of lines competing in his head, Sherlock starts to speak again. "John, I– About the drugs, I was simply– I wasn't lying when I said I'm not an addict. Before this morning, I hadn't touched anything stronger than a cigarette before my bid for Magnussen's attention. And before that, nothing for more than four years."

"Then why today?"

"Sherlooock? Yoo-hoo!" comes Mrs Hudson's voice from downstairs. "I received your message on my mobile phone, dear. Are you up there?"

John grabs Sherlock's forearm. "Tell me. Why today?"

Sherlock hesitates, then his jaw sets and the words come fast. "Because, I wasn't coming back. That was my sentence, for Magnussen. Mycroft estimated that I had a few months to live at the most, and he couldn't have rescued me this time–"

"This time?"

"Wait, please, I have to say this."

"Sorry, sorry." John hears Mrs. Hudson's steps start up the stairs. "Go on," he says, frantic. 

"I was going to die there, and I preferred to go on my own terms, not in some damp cell, when my body couldn't take the torture anymore. I thought I had nothing left to lose. I'd said my goodbyes," Sherlock says plainly. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing you could have done. But you're right, I should–"

The door to the flat opens and Mrs. Hudson bustles in. "There you are! And you too, John, dear! What a good surprise!" She comes and squeezes both their arms. "And that dreadful Mycroft, forgive me dear, I know he's your brother, but sometimes, I swear, sending word that I could rent out the flat. Now, I knew he was dead wrong, you see, although I can't say I expected you back so soon, or I would have dusted a bit. Just a bit, mind you..."

John hasn't taken his eyes of Sherlock, and he wants Mrs. Hudson to leave them alone, to stop talking about renting out 221b. He wants to cry, a little. Somehow he ends up laughing instead, and after a bewildered look, Sherlock joins in. Soon, they're giggling helplessly. 

"Oh, you boys," Mrs. Hudson admonishes, hands on her hips, "always in your own little bubble. I'll have you know, Sherlock, that if I didn't keep an eye on things, this place would be a pigsty."

This sets off John and Sherlock anew. 

Still chuckling, Sherlock grabs Mrs. Hudson with one arm and hugs her to his side. John wraps his arm around both of them, all three hugging and laughing. 

This is how Lestrade finds them when he bursts through the door. "Sherlock! Thank God, you're here! Quick, you have to come! Hello Mrs. Hudson."

"Woah, wait a minute," John says, blocking Greg's path. "What's happening? "

"There's been a murder, a bad one," Greg says, visibly shaken. 

"Well, I'm sure you can manage five minutes without Sherlock," John insists. "He just got back. He's not in a fit state to go traipsing around–"

"You don't understand!" Greg interrupts. Loudly. 

He rummages in the pocket of his trench coat, takes out a photograph, and thrusts it in John's face. Sherlock comes to stand at his side and they both examine the picture. 

A pale, naked body is laying face down on a dark ground. His back his riddled with cuts, burns and torn skin. In the middle, the biggest slashes read : 'welcome back Sherlock.' 

"Oh god, what now? How did they even know?" John groans. "Still, Greg, are you sure you can't start without Sherlock?"

Greg looks at him as if he's lost it. "The body was dumped in a tube station ten minutes ago. In broad daylight!"

"Well, technically..." John says. 

"No one saw anything! We have to catch that guy right now!" Greg is becoming more and more agitated. 

John realises that Sherlock has been unaccountably silent during the whole exchange. "What do you want to do?" he asks him. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling fine, John." The tone is exasperated, but Sherlock's eyes are gentle. "Maybe you would be more comfortable with me going, if there was a Doctor coming along?"

"Oh. Right, of course. Let me just grab a few things from the bathroom." He goes and takes a first aid kit, as well as a bottle of water from the kitchen. 

A few seconds later, they're running down the stairs behind Greg, and despite everything, John can't help a giddy little smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Riding in the cab behind Greg's police car, John feels every minute go by like a wasted opportunity. He wants to ask more questions, he wants to rant, he wants to confront and comfort. But the presence of the cabbie stops him, as well as the cheesy eighties pop song coming half-heartedly from the speakers. He settles for drumming his fingers along to the music. 

The journey passes agonisingly slowly. They've been stuck in traffic ever since they passed Hyde Park. Now they're hidling just below Victoria station.

"Sorry gents," the cabbie calls from the driver's seat, "there's been an incident down in the tube. There's no service at all on Victoria line, and now there are replacement buses everywhere. Not much I can do."

"Yes, we know," John answers irritably. 

"Oh, yeah, that's where you're going, right? Rockwell? A colleague on the radio said it was a murder. Is that why you're going?" 

"Sorry," John says, looking resolutely out the window, "can't really talk about it."

"All right, got it," the cabbie says, winking at him in the rear view mirror. 

They inch forward a bit before stopping at a red light. A giant ad on the side of a double-decker takes up all of John's window, making the wait somehow even more maddening. On the poster, an annoyingly tousled male model wears a patterned scarf, and the type screams at John: Berluti, since 1895. He risks a side glance at Sherlock, growing more and more concerned with his continued silence. But his face is turned away, and John lacks courage to engage him in conversation after all that's happened today. They both need time to digest. Unfortunately, a crime scene creepily dedicated to Sherlock probably won't be the best place. John sighs and settles to wait. 

 

When they arrive, the tube station has long been evacuated and cordoned off, and the echo of their steps in the empty hall is eerie. 

Greg brings them down to the platform where several police officers and a forensics team are working. 

"Where is everyone?" John asks, not seeing any familiar faces. 

"I didn't actually caught the case," Greg answers, "but the detective that did knew I worked with Sherlock, so she called me. Here she is," he adds, as a small middle-aged brunette with a confident stride makes her way towards them. 

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson," she says with a nod to each of them, "glad you could join us. I'm Detective Inspector Burney."

She doesn't actually seem glad, but John finds politeness a refreshing change from overt hostility. "Nice to meet you," he says, with his best 'yes, m'am' smile. 

No sound emanates from Sherlock, busy taping away at his phone. 

"Don't mind him," John says apologetically, even as his concern grows. The absence of inappropriate deductions or comments about wasted time is becoming very worrisome. 

Still looking at his screen, Sherlock finally talks. "Have you seen the cctv footage, Inspector?"

"No, we've been waiting for–"

Sherlock interrupts by thrusting his phone at her. "Here."

John huddles with Greg and D.I. Burney around the small screen. 

The video shows the platform they're standing on, and is time-stamped 11:13 a.m., just over three hours after Sherlock's plane turned back around. A few people are standing around, waiting for the train. It looks quiet, between rush hours. A tall man comes in from the left, carrying a big industrial carpet, wearing a baseball cap and heavily stained white overalls. John can already see where this is going. A train enters the station and everyone gets in except the tall man. When the train has left the station, he quickly unrolls the carpet on the deserted platform, leaves the body it contained on the ground, and strolls away. 

Greg whistles. "Jesus, that's brazen!"

"Yes," D.I. Burney nods, frowning. "And yet he still managed to vanish. We retraced his steps, using the description given by station security, up until Vauxhall Gardens. We found his clothes in an out of the way corner. Burned of course. Nothing after that." 

"Right." Sherlock claps his hands and grabs his phone back, then walks away. "Let's see that body shall we?"

The dead man is naked, lying on his face, his features completely hidden by a head of dark curls. His body is lean and muscular, and his skin is very pale. He's shorter than Sherlock, but the similarities are enough to fill John with a sick, panicky feeling. 

Sherlock is crouching at the side of the body, dancing his usual jerky ballet around the corpse, examining his limbs, his hair, but especially the marks on his back. He then comes to stand at John's side, snapping off his latex gloves. 

"What do you think?" Sherlock asks him. 

John is surprised by the request, but he doesn't dare question it. "Well, nothing much, apart from the obvious," he answers carefully. Only one thing jumps out at him. "The wounds on his back were all made postmortem." He looks at Sherlock who only nods. "That's a first, right? Torturing someone who's already dead... Do you know how he died? I can't see cause of death." 

"Knife wound to the chest." 

"All right, what else?" 

"I–" Sherlock shifts uneasily at his side. John can't help but wonder why he's not spouting out a stream of deductions already. Have the drugs tampered with his ability to deduce? Is that why he's been so subdued? 

"John," Sherlock starts again, "there's something I need to show you." 

"What? What is it?"

"Not here," Sherlock says in his ear, his voice low. John has to close his eyes to block out the sensation of his breath against his skin. Or maybe to block out the rest of the world. 

Before he has time to answer, Sherlock is already walking towards the exit, his coat tails flapping behind. John starts at a jog after him. 

Greg and D.I. Burney try to intercept him, but Sherlock ignores them completely. 

"Sorry, sorry," John calls out, passing by the two D.I.s, "he has a lead to identify the victim," he fibs. "I'll keep you posted."

"Don't forget!" Greg shouts after him. 

As he starts up the stairs, John can hear his apologetic voice retreating behind. "Yes, he's always like that, although it could have been worse, I suppose. But don't worry..."

Yes, John thinks, catching up to Sherlock, it could have been worse. It should have been worse. 

They exit the station under the weak glare of the sun, and John tries to observe Sherlock discreetly. His skin looks pale and a little sweaty, but overall he looks good for someone coming down from this much drugs. There's a frantic quality to his gaze, however, that John doesn't like. 

"Sherlock!" he grabs his arm to stop him. "Sherlock, wait!"

"What, John? I told you, I need to show you something"

"Yes, I know, but couldn't you have given something to Greg? It might be useful to identify the body."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Sherlock– Are you– Can't you–" John realises there's no tactful way to ask about this. "Are you still too high to work properly?"

Sherlock draws himself up, snatching his arm from John's grip. "The victim is between thirty and thirty-three years old, his father is British, his mother is Canadian, he studied Graphic Design at the Edinburgh College of Art, but is working as a bartender in a pub near St Lambeth road. He has two girlfriends and a boyfriend, and takes woodworking lessons during the day. He was bringing croissants back to his boyfriend, from the deli on Bonnington Square, when he was attacked. I could go on, but I trust you're satisfied?"

"Yes, God yes." John breathes. "But why didn't you tell any of this to the Police?"

"Because. It. Wouldn't. Matter. He was grabbed at random. His identity is irrelevant. He has no connection to his murderer." Sherlock hisses. "Now, can we go?"

"Sure, but how do you know?" Seeing Sherlock's aggravated expression, John raises both hands placatingly. "I'm not questioning your judgement, only asking."

"John," Sherlock says, looking desperate. He takes both of John's forearms into his long hands, pulling him face to face. "I swear you'll understand, if you just let me show you."

John opens his mouth, ready to ask more questions, but seeing Sherlock is at the end of his rope, he sighs, "All right, lead the way."

Sherlock smiles weakly, and, after a brief glance around, sets out away from the station. 

John follows, feeling on edge. He doesn't know the South Bank well at all, and at this hour, there isn't much foot traffic. The neighbourhood isn't run-down or trashy, not at all, really. The pavement is a bit filthy, and there are a few dodgy-looking shops around, but nothing threatening. Still, he doesn't like to be in unfamiliar territory right now, with a Sherlock-baiting killer on the loose. Frankly, for once, he'd rather be back at the station, surrounded by police uniforms. 

It doesn't help that Sherlock is slightly out of breath, simply from walking briskly. John scans their surroundings as they go, vigilant. 

"There," Sherlock exclaims after a good ten minutes, "perfect!"

He pushes open the door of a dingy vintage shop, selling second-hand clothes and accessories. John's mind boggles. He enters after Sherlock and watches as he takes several shirts off the rack, seemingly at random. There is barely enough space to walk in the aisles, packed to bursting with clothes. The shop is dark and smells musty. Sherlock looks completely out of place. John shrugs to himself. Maybe he needs to be in disguise to show him the thing. 

"Can I help you?" the shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman, asks tonelessly. She's seated on a bar stool behind the counter, watching a re-run of Eastenders from one eye. 

"No, no," Sherlock says, "we're doing fine. There! I think I have what we need." 

He goes to the counter with a colourful selection of shirts. "On second thought, could you help me with my coat? I'd like to leave it with you, if you don't mind." As he's talking, he drops the shirts on the floor and quickly takes off his coat. 

"But there are pegs in the–"

"Nonsense, we trust you," Sherlock overrides her, smiling winsomely. It looks terrifying. 

The shopkeeper nods mutely, and takes Sherlock's coat. 

"Come on, John," Sherlock says, turning to him, "give the lady your coat."

John considers arguing for approximatively a millisecond before he gives in and shrugs off his coat. As he goes to take his phone out from his pocket, Sherlock stops him with a hand on his wrist, shaking his head. 

Things suddenly make a lot more sense. 

They walk to the back of the shop, each with a small armful of shirts, towards a little nook hidden behind tall racks full of evening dresses. John wades behind Sherlock in a sea of moth-eaten lace and sequin skirts. He's pretty sure Sherlock purposefully gave him the shirt with the purple cats on it. But they're just props, so that's all right. 

Just as John has convinced himself that the whole thing is a ruse to have a discreet conversation away from potentially bugged phones, Sherlock steps into the fitting room and pulls the curtain closed. 

"Hum... Sherlock?" John whispers. 

"Yes, John?"

"Are you actually trying on shirts? I thought you just wanted a quiet place to talk." He lowers is voice even more, leaning close. "You know, away from the phones."

Sherlock continues to undress in the fitting room, and the fabric of the curtain moves against John's cheek. He jerks back, startled at the intimacy, and it takes him a moment to register Sherlock's answer. 

"You're right," Sherlock is saying, "but as I told you repeatedly, I need to show you something." Then in a loud voice, probably to be overheard from the counter, "So, what do you think about this one?"

Sherlock pulls the curtain open, but instead of sporting a vintage shirt, he's bare-chested. 

John has seen Sherlock undressed many times before, and he tamps down the desire to touch with practised ease. Still, the close proximity in the small space makes it hard to breathe. 

Then Sherlock turns around. 

A strangled noise escapes John. Sherlock's back is riddled with deep, vicious scars, the work of a cruel and twisted mind. This time, moved by something stronger than lust, John can't stop his hand from reaching. 

Just as he's about to touch his skin, Sherlock starts to talk. "Do you recognise it? It's almost exactly identical, except for the writing, obviously."

"What?" John's voice is a hoarse whisper ; his hand is still suspended an inch away from Sherlock's back. 

"The wounds on the victim, John, don't you see? They match mine." His tone is impatient, but when John raises his eyes to Sherlock's profile, he sees the distress there. 

"Sherlock– What–" His throat is clogged and John has to clear it. "What happened? Who did this to you?" Two of his fingers finally make contact, and stay there, resting on a long, raised scar over Sherlock's left hip. 

Sherlock doesn't answer right away. He bows his head down and they stay frozen like that for a moment, connected by the pads of John's fingers. 

"It was when you went away, wasn't it?" John continues, "You didn't have them before." His hand drops to his side. "You never let me see your back when I was monitoring your gunshot wound. I'm an idiot."

"Well, to be fair you didn't strictly need access to my back," Sherlock says, his voice flat. 

"Why didn't you say anything? When did this happen?"

"You're right, it was during my time away. And there never seemed to be a good time after my return to talk about it." He chuckles, but it sounds forced. "Can you imagine? 'Sorry to interrupt your marriage proposal, but I just got back from a torture holiday. Would you like to see the slideshow?' You seemed pissed enough to see I was back."

"Sherlock," John sighs, "you know that's not what I was angry about." He has a sudden realisation. "Oh, God. That's what Mycroft meant, isn't it? You were still healing when you came to the restaurant." John lets his head drop forward, resting his brow on Sherlock's nape. His last words are barely audible. "You came straight to see me."

He feels the little catch of breath before Sherlock answers, "yes."

"Sherlock, you should have told me." 

"Yes."

"I would still have been angry, but I would have helped. And I sure as hell wouldn't have hit you."

"I know."

"I might have forgiven you sooner, too, if I had known you weren't traipsing about Europe, having the time of your life without me."

"I know. I'm sorry. And I'll tell you everything, as soon as I can, but for now..."

John straightens up. "For now, we have to catch a murderer who somehow knows about your every move, and has a map of the scars on your back. What are the chances that he was the one who put them there in the first place?"

"I'll have to check with Mycroft, but I'd say slim to none," Sherlock says, as he puts his shirt back on. 

"Too bad, I would have liked a word with him."

Sherlock smiles at him, soft and trusting. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one. It wasn't very cheery, but the boys have a lot to get off their chests!
> 
> Next chapter the action picks up, I promise :)
> 
> Comments are love! And please don't hesitate to critique.


	4. Chapter 4

They talk a little in hushed voices at the back of the small shop. 

Sherlock confirms that he thinks their phones might be bugged. The leak might also come from someone at the airport, and he can't rule out that Baker Street is bugged too. 

"In any case," he tells John, "the timing between my return and the murder is too close. Someone is either in the loop, or listening in."

"How are we going to investigate, then? And what about Moriarty? Do you think this might be him?"

"I told you, Jim Moriarty is dead, John, but yes, let's call him that. I do think it might be the work of a wannabe successor. Either a distraction or a warning, for us to stay away from their operations. Probably both."

"What are we going to do? It's going to be hard to work without talking."

"For you maybe," Sherlock says, a hint of his old snark back. 

John snorts. "Right, because I'm the one who loves the sound of his own voice so much." 

They smile at each other, then look down simultaneously. 

"So." John clears his throat. "What's the plan then?" 

"We get burner phones, but otherwise we carry on as usual. If we want to talk about something sensitive, we have to be out of range from our phones, or put them in the microwave oven."

John's head snatches back up. "You want to microwave our phones?" 

"No! Just put them in and close the door. It runs interference," Sherlock says, in his best 'your tiny mind understands so little' voice. "That way we can talk at home, if we don't find bugs there."

Grabbing his suit jacket, Sherlock says, "come on, or it'll start to sound suspicious."

"Wait, where are we going?" 

"Vauxhall Gardens. Just because the police couldn't get any clues from the killer's burned clothes, doesn't mean I can't."

They go back to the front of the store, where Sherlock grabs both their coats, hands his to John, and walks out. John murmurs a hasty "sorry, nothing fitted," to the owner and follows. 

 

On their way to Vauxhall, they pass a cheap electronics shop, advertising computer parts and unblocked phones on big yellow signboards. Sherlock silently hands his phone to John and goes in alone. 

He comes out a few minutes later, and gives John a basic Nokia. He pockets his smart phone back, then types on his own Nokia. John's burner vibrates in his hand and he has to fiddle with the buttons a bit to open the message. 

\- We can use this to communicate anything we can't say out loud -SH  
\- It's better than nothing I guess. How did you have time to program a signature already?

Sherlock rolls his eyes and starts walking again towards the park. 

 

In Vauxhall Gardens, they find what they're looking for easily enough. Most of the park is made of open spaces, and the scene is cordoned off with police tape. They walk across a large expanse of grass, the blades shockingly green against the backdrop of bare, grey trees, grey buildings and grey skies. In the centre of a small copse, lies a small pile of ashes and blackened fabric. A young constable is standing guard, but he quickly steps aside when Sherlock flashes a police I.D.—probably Greg's. 

They crouch in the patch of dirt at the feet of the trees and John watches as Sherlock bends close to the ground with his magnifying glass. John can't see anything of interest, but Sherlock must, because he produces a evidence bag and collects some ashes with it. He then pockets it swiftly, and takes out his burner. 

\- Let's go to Bart's -SH

John nods. As they start walking , he has a thought and types a reply. 

\- If our phones are bugged won't they know where we're going anyway?  
\- No need to give them a head start. -SH

 

When they get to the lab at Bart's, Sherlock goes straight to a microscope and begins to analyse the sample. John hovers behind, near the door. It's now close to three o'clock in the afternoon, and he really wants Sherlock to eat something. There's no way he can continue like this on an empty stomach after the morning he's had. 

John, however, can't make himself leave the room to get some food. He stays there, his back to the wall, one eye on Sherlock, the other on the door. He feels a little ridiculous. As if a knife-happy, tall assassin was suddenly going to stroll in, during the ten minutes it would take to go to the nearby deli. 

His feet still won't budge. 

Then the door opens, and before his brain has registered it, John is pointing his gun at Molly's chest. She jumps back and screams. 

"Oh God, Molly! I'm so sorry!" John exclaims, shoving the gun back in his pocket. 

He pats her arm awkwardly, as he tries to reassure and examine her for signs of shock at the same time. 

"I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry," she says with a tremulous smile. Her knuckles, however, are white, gripping a stack of files close to her chest. 

"No, really, I'm so very sorry, I shouldn't have," John insists. "I was just—"

"John, stop." Molly lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to explain. Greg told me what happened this morning. If anything, you're right to be on the lookout. Let's not give anyone else a chance to kill him, or you, for that matter. I'm so glad to see you're both all right. And here," she adds with a much more genuine smile. 

On an impulse, John grabs Molly and gives her a bear hug. "Thank you," he says, through a mouthful of her hair. 

He releases her and they both shuffle their feet a little. 

"So," John says, clearing his throat, "'Greg' is it? And he called you since this morning, hum?" 

Molly's dimples make an appearance and she reddens a little. "He just thought l might want to know." 

"While this is all absolutely riveting, would you mind going elsewhere to talk, or alternatively, shutting up?" Sherlock calls from his workstation, still bent over the microscope. "I know you both have poor observational skills, but I'm trying to work."

"I'm sure your genius can handle it all," John calls back. But as he turns back to talk to Molly, his voice is barely a whisper. "Sorry, as you can see he's feeling quite himself." He frowns. "Although, I wouldn't mind if he ate something at some point."

Molly looks at Sherlock, then back to John. "I'll go, if you want. Grab something to eat, I mean," she says, seemingly understanding his dilemma at a glance. 

"Would you? Thank you. God, I don't know why you put up with us." 

"Don't worry about it, I don't mind. Anyway, I only had a salad for lunch, and this gives me a good excuse to buy a pastry."

"Well, you're a lifesaver," John says, handing her a couple of tenners. 

After Molly is gone, John hesitates to go see up close what Sherlock is doing. He has moved on from the microscope, and now seems to be diluting the ash into various test tubes filled with liquids. John finds himself still unable to leave his post. 

His phone beeps in his pockets, a message from Mary. 

\- How's it going, then? Making any progress?  
\- We're exploring a lead.  
\- You have a lead already?  
\- Nothing concrete for now, but it might be connected to Moriarty. I'll tell you when I know more.  
\- All right. Text me if you think you're going to be late. 

His other phone vibrates in his pocket. 

\- If Mary needs you, you should go. I can manage here. -SH  
\- I don't need to go. 

John hesitates, his fingers poised on the small keyboard. Then he types and sends another message, before he can think himself out of it. 

\- And I certainly don't want to. 

Sherlock's head whips around and he searches John's face. John looks steadily back at him for a few seconds, then turns back to the burner. 

\- What I want is for you to finish what you're doing so we know where to go next. And I also want you to eat something before we go. 

Sherlock looks up, nods, and goes back to work. 

After some time, Sherlock takes the phone back out and sends a new text to John. 

\- I can't be a hundred percent sure because of the fire damage, but I think I have identified a location that might be worth visiting. -SH  
\- All right, let's just wait for Molly and the food. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, probably to rant about the impracticality of nourishment, but he is interrupted by the ringing of John's phone. It's Greg. 

"Hello, Greg?"  
"Where are you?"  
"We're at Bart's. Sorry I haven't called yet, Sherlock hasn't—"  
"That's not why I'm calling. There's news. I think we've found the killer."  
"What?"  
"A dead body was discovered. It matches his description. And he had two combat knives on him."  
"What!?"  
"I know! Clean shot through the head, snipper style."  
"Where?"  
"I'll text you the address. Hurry up, all right? I don't think I can justify holding the body for Sherlock if forensics decides to move him."  
"Hum, okay. We're leaving right away." 

"The killer's dead?" Sherlock asks, as soon as John hangs up.  
"Yeah." He frowns. "You don't seem that surprised."  
"No, he was sloppy. I imagine whoever hired him wasn't too happy," Sherlock says, as he puts on his coat and walks towards John.  
"Sorry, I—" John interrupts himself and takes out the burner. 

\- This is hard. I'm going to slip up sooner or later. Sorry I couldn't figure out a way to stop Greg from texting the address.  
\- Well, if Moriarty is behind it all, it hardly matters. They already know where the body is. -SH  
\- Have you found anything to indicate one way or another?  
\- Not so far. -SH

They're standing side by side now. John shows him Greg's text with the address, then goes back to the burner 

\- Is that where the place the ash pointed to?  
\- No. I'll still want to go there afterward. -SH

John nods. They pocket their phones and exit the lab. 

 

In the cab, they're both silent. John is looking out the window, watching for a food stand, or some place where he could buy a snack. He feels his phone vibrate. It's Sherlock, on the burner. 

\- What did you mean, earlier, about not wanting to go home? -SH

John looks at him, but Sherlock is looking down at the phone, turning it restlessly in his hands. John understand that the hypothetical bug isn't the only reason Sherlock is using texts for this conversation. And he's all right with it. 

\- Exactly what it sounds like. I won't spend a minute more than necessary with Mary.  
\- But I thought you wanted to stay, at least for the baby. -SH  
\- Yes, I'll stay until my daughter is born and then I'm leaving with her.  
\- Mary won't take kindly to this. Are you sure it's safe? -SH  
\- You saw Mycroft's file, she's basically a serial killer. And she killed YOU for all intents and purposes. I don't know how you expect me to stay with her knowing all this. Anyway, that means I have plenty on her. I won't prevent her for spending time with our daughter, but she better not make any noises.  
\- I thought you still felt something for her. -SH  
\- Oh, I feel something for her all right. 

Sherlock snorts and they glance at each other, smirking. 

\- You're a much better liar than I thought, John Watson. And I mean that as a compliment. -SH  
\- You would. 

"Here you are," the voice of the cabbie cuts in, "that'll be thirty-seven pounds."

They've stopped in front of a squat white building, in a quietly affluent neighbourhood. Post Office signs are still attached to the facade, but it has obviously been closed down for some time. 

As they exit the cab, Greg comes to the door and motion them in. 

"Hurry up. The scene is still intact, but not for long. And Sherlock?"

"Yes, I know, I'll behave."

"No, I don't think you understand. Don't talk to anyone, don't look at anyone. Just in and out, five minutes, okay? If someone questions your presence here, we're toast. My job's on the line. D.I. Burney asked for your input earlier, because of the markings, but I've been officially asked not to use you as a consultant anymore."

Sherlock nods, sober, and John adds "thanks, Greg."

"Yeah, I don't know how they expect me to solve this one without you, but what can you do."

They proceed in silence to the back room of the Post Office, filled with empty metallic shelves and baskets. 

The body is slumped against a wall, a neat round hole in his forehead. Sherlock kneels next to it and begins his examination, while John stays with Greg, a few feet behind. A couple of officers are standing around, visibly waiting to close the crime scene, but they don't seem to be paying much attention to them. 

Greg leans close to John. "I sent Donovan and Anderson back at HQ. No need to tempt fate."

A few minutes later, Sherlock stands up. 

"Can I see the back door?" he asks. 

"Of course you would know that's where they came in," Greg sighs. "Follow me."

They file out of the room by a door in the far wall, which Sherlock scrutinises with his magnifying glass. He then turns towards John and Greg, looking frustrated. 

"What is it?" John asks. 

"I can tell exactly what happened here, and I have enough data to find out who's that man inside, but not a single thing about who killed him. Except that they're very, very careful."

"So what now?" John says. "Oh wait, you'll think about it over some food. I'm not— Shit! Molly!"

"Molly? What about Molly?" Greg asks. 

"She went to buy some food for us, and I forgot to tell her we were leaving. Bugger!" 

While he's explaining, John calls Molly, but it rings on until he gets her voicemail. He leaves her a quick message, even as he notices that Sherlock is looking worried. 

"What?" John asks him. 

"How much time would you say went by between the moment she left and Lestrade's phone call? Twenty-eight minutes?"

"Yeah, it seemed pretty long. I remember wondering if she went to that Chinese place you like."

"And she didn't contact you?"

John checks his home screen. "No."

Sherlock takes out his own phone and swivels on his heel, pacing as he talks. John and Greg watch anxiously, but there's not much to tell from his terse side of the conversation. 

He hangs up and turns to them. "She's still not back at Bart's. And knowing her, if she'd been delayed by something, she would have warned you. She's very polite," he adds with a grimace, as if politeness if a terrible flaw. 

"Do you think something happened to her?" Greg asks, panic creeping into his voice. 

"That's precisely what I just said," Sherlock barks, "keep up Lestrade."

"Sherlock," John says, warningly. 

"Sorry," Sherlock tells Greg, "I'm concerned for Molly, but I suppose it's no reason to snap."

John is astonished by the apology, but it's nothing to his bafflement when Sherlock raises his phone back to his ear and says, "Mycroft, I need your help. I believe Molly Hooper is missing."

A few minutes later, Sherlock receives a video on his phone. John and Greg come to stand at his side, and all three men watch as, on the surveillance tape, two men manhandle Molly into the backseat of a car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the little cliffhanger! Next chapter will be up in just a few days, I promise. 
> 
> Any science-y or science-adjacent stuff is pure invention on my part, and if you have anything to suggest to make it seem more plausible, please feel free. 
> 
> Otherwise, comments are love and any criticism/suggestion is very welcome :)


	5. Chapter 5

They all meet at Scotland Yard, in a large conference room, where Lestrade briefs a team of officers on Molly's abduction. 

Nobody bats an eyelash at Sherlock and John's presence; if anything, people seem encouraged that Sherlock is here. When Lestrade turns to him to summarise their last moments with Molly, as well as describe her clothes, hair and accessories, they listen intently. All of them know Molly, or they know of her, and they all want to find her at all costs. 

When Sherlock has finished, Lestrade goes through a quick summary of the murders from the Stockwell tube station and the disaffected St John's Wood post office. He explains that they were probably organised by the person who kidnapped Molly, and that they need to identify him. 

The investigative work is divided amongst the officers, and John finally finds himself alone with Sherlock, who immediately sends him a text from the burner. 

\- Say that we need to eat something. -SH

"Sherlock," John complies gladly, "before we do anything else, you need to eat something."

"Fine, but we're staying here and stealing Lestrade's food. There's no time to waste."

They go to the floor's break room, where Sherlock puts his phone into the microwave. John does the same, still bewildered that it is apparently a real thing. 

"Are you sure it's safe to talk?" he whispers to Sherlock. 

"No, although their microwave oven seems old enough," Sherlock whispers back. "Still, let's go to the other side of the door just in case."

"Wait."

John goes to the fridge and pilfers two sandwiches and a can of ice tea, then joins Sherlock in the empty corridor. 

"Here," he says, sticking a salmon sandwich in Sherlock's hands. "Every last crumb, Sherlock, I mean it."

"Fine," Sherlock says, biting sulkily into the bread. 

John hides a smile by taking a sip of ice tea, then remembers with a pang why they didn't eat lunch earlier. 

"Do you have any idea why they would take Molly?" John asks. 

"Well, they didn't contact us or anyone else, so they're not trying to ransom her or asking for a deal. It seems more and more likely that they're just trying to distract us, keep us chasing our tails."

"God, two murders and a kidnapping in one day, just to keep you occupied. I can't wait to get my hands on them."

"Well, it makes sense, in a twisted way. It very rarely takes me more than a few hours to solve a case. By preventing me to focus on one, they buy themselves a considerable amount of time."

"So concentrate on just one. Let's find Molly."

"We will, but..." Sherlock munches on his sandwich thoughtfully. 

John frowns. "But what?"

"Well, obviously, we will concentrate on Molly, and that's what they want us to do, so we can assume it will send us on a wild goose chase. The question is, what will they do during that time? Can we risk giving it to them?"

"Any theories? They must be really pissed that you ended up staying in London to go on such a rampage all of a sudden." 

"Of course, John!" Sherlock claps his hands in glee, sending crumbs and little bits of salad flying around. "It's not the fact that I'm back, I've been back for months and no one was particularly bothered." Sherlock leans towards John, his eyes intent. "No. The one thing that has changed since yesterday is that we're aware that someone is resurrecting Moriarty's network. Someone who is buying time to go to ground while we're running around London."

John feels dread griping him at the idea of someone like Moriarty, but saner and stealthier; someone like that, slipping through their hands, and slowly corrupting everything they touch, everywhere they go. 

He grabs Sherlock's elbow. "We have to find Molly, and fast, but can't you, I don't know, multitask?"

"Well, obviously I could, but I don't think I'll have to. Mycroft is tracking the car that took Molly as we speak, and the police is questioning anyone who saw anything at any of the three crime scene." At John's pointed look, Sherlock finishes his sandwich in two bites, before continuing. "If I could have an hour alone with the cases files, maybe I could find a link between the three. And if we can track the person responsible, it might actually be quicker than to find where they took Molly. Mycroft says they lost the car on cctv somewhere in Crystal Palace. They're checking every single second of surveillance video available from the area, but it might take a long time, simply to establish whether they've left London or not."

"Let's go ask Greg for the files," John says. "Here, finish the tea. And let me do the talking."

They take their phones back, and go in search of Greg. 

 

In the end, Greg doesn't require any convincing. 

"I can't give the files to two civilians, especially since Sherlock has been more or less banned from consulting." But before Sherlock's huff of indignation can turn into a rant, he adds, "Right now, however, I need to check on the team's progress, and I don't see the harm in two of my friends waiting for me in my office. Where it just so happens that I had been going over the files. On my desk."

"Thanks, mate," John says. 

"No need to thank me, let's just find Molly as quickly as possible."

"Of course."

John and Sherlock take off their coats and settle to work in Greg's office, pouring over every photograph and witness report. After a half hour or so, Sherlock shouts in frustration, grabbing his hair with both hands and tugging at it. 

"These files are useless! I need more data!"

John rubs a hand over his eyes. "Sure, what kind of data?"

Sherlock jumps up from his chair, taking the burner out of his pocket and types on it frantically. 

\- The ashes! There was a high concentration of one compound in particular, that indicated the killer had returned to the same piece of waste ground several times in the past few days. -SH  
\- Let's go then. I'll give Greg the heads-up. 

John goes for the door, but Sherlock quickly rounds the desk and stops him with a hand on his upper arm. With the other, he dips into John's coat pocket and takes his smartphone out. 

"Of course, yes" John says, in a hoarse whisper. 

He's not certain what he's saying yes to. Sherlock's sudden proximity is disorienting. His eyes, most of all, soft, luminous, and intent, seem to paralyse and pull John in at the same time.

Part of John tells him to run for the door, that it's time to go find Greg anyway; tells him that he's revealing too much, that Sherlock will see everything. Another part, however, a more vocal part, notices that Sherlock isn't moving either. That his expression isn't shifting to cold indifference, that his eyes are still gentle, waiting, questioning. That this is not the first time he's looked at John this way. 

He takes Sherlock's hand in one of his own, where it lingered on his arm, and brings it between them, holding it lightly, stroking the knuckles with his thumb. He feels Sherlock's curls grazing his cheek, and then the weight of his head resting on his shoulder. 

"Soon, all right?" John murmurs, as he brings his other hand to comb gently through Sherlock's hair. 

He feels Sherlock's nod as his curls tickle his neck, and he inclines his head playfully over his, rubbing his cheek softly against Sherlock's ear. 

"Very soon," Sherlock says quietly, his voice muffled by John's jumper. 

"Very soon," John promises, his lips brushing the side of Sherlock's head. 

The moment feels so natural, so comfortable, like it never was before, with anyone else. There was no choice to make, he realises, this just is; no matter what else is happening in his life, this is the one true constant. 

They disentangle slowly, looking somewhere towards the ground, although John can see the small smile on Sherlock's lips from the corner of his eye. 

His hands itch to touch Sherlock again, but he knows they have to go, they have to find Molly. 

Just as he reaches for the door, Lestrade barges in, nearly crashing into him. 

The D.I. brandishes a notepad under their noses. On it is written: 

MYCROFT CALLED, SAID TO WRITE YOU THAT THEY FOUND THE CAR AGAIN. WAS HEADING OUT OF LONDON ON THE M20

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?

Greg is looking between them, scowling. When they look at each other, he waves the notepad at then, growing visibly impatient. 

Sherlock raises his hand, holding up both his and John's phones for Greg to see, encircled in his long fingers. He then takes the notepad and pen from Greg's hands and writes:

Bugged

Greg's eyes go wide. He opens his mouth, then obviously thinks better of it. He takes the notepad again, sets it on his desk and begins scribbling furiously. 

WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME???

Sherlock writes below:

Didn't think you'd have anything of interest to disclose. 

John groans. Greg straightens up, fists balled, then take three long breaths through his nose. He picks up the notepad again. 

SO WHAT NOW?

Sherlock goes behind the desk and puts his and John's phone in a drawer, which he shuts firmly. He then ushers Greg and John out of the office, follows them into the corridor, and closes the door. 

"We'll simply leave them here," Sherlock says. "I'm sure, by now, they'll have figured out we know they are listening."

"Let's go then," Greg urges. "Mycroft told me he would send us updates on the kidnappers' route as he got them. We can be on our way, catch them not long after they get to their destination."

John turns to Sherlock, who is looking hesitant. "Wild goose chase?"

Sherlock nods. "There's a good chance they do have Molly, but—"

"But what?" Greg interrupts impatiently. "We can't just wait, you saw how they handled her!"

"We'd be playing into their hands," Sherlock says shrugging on his coat, "but you're right Greg, Molly can't wait. Follow Mycroft's instructions and you'll find them, don't worry."

"But you're coming right? We need John, he has a—" Greg coughs, "a unique set of skills." He leans closer to them, lowering his voice. "I'm not waiting around for the superintendent to authorise an armed operation, all right? SCO shouldn't be far behind, but I want to get to Molly at the earliest moment possible. Come on, guys, each of us owes her his life, that's the least we can do. Especially you, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?" John asks. 

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Greg turns to Sherlock, looking incredulous. "You never told him?"

"It's true John, that's what I—" Sherlock starts to explain, before cutting himself. "Greg is right, there's no time to lose. If you can't wait to hear about it, ask Greg to tell you on the way. Just— Promise me to reserve judgment until you've heard what I have to say, all right?"

"Why?"John asks. "Why can't you tell me yourself?" At the same time, Greg exclaims loudly, "Reserve judgment? About what? I swear I don't understand the first thing about you two."

Both Sherlock and John ignore him. 

"I'm not coming, John. Lestrade needs you, but not me. There's a slight chance Molly isn't in that car, and we have to know more about the person who orchestrated everything. I'm staying in the city, but I'll text you every step of the way, I promise."

"I don't know, Sherlock..." 

But even though John hates the idea of leaving Sherlock right now, he knows both he and Greg are right. It doesn't make it any easier, but he knows it's the smartest option, and the right thing to do, for Molly. 

"Don't worry," Sherlock says with a crooked smile, "big brother is watching me."

"All right, but—" John turns to Greg. "Just give me a minute, I'll meet you outside."

"One minute, mate!" Greg calls, already striding towards the lift. 

"Sherlock—"

"I know. I promise you, I'll be careful."

"It's not that. I mean, I'm not happy about it." John frowns at the floor. "Really, really, not happy about it, but I agree with you, we don't have a better option." He raises his eyes to Sherlock's face. "I just want you to tell me what Greg meant. I want to hear it from you. Just—" he holds up his hand, anticipating Sherlock's objections. "Just the bare bones, I'll ask Greg the details."

"I—" Sherlock stops, then nods. "Molly was the one who helped me. To fake my death. And the reason she agreed to it was because I needed to protect you. And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. There were three snippers, one for each of you. They were going to kill you if I didn't jump. Moriarty shot himself so I couldn't deduce a way to stop them. I– It was a last resort, John, I didn't want to have to do it. I didn't want to say goodbye. And— And I realise now that I should have told you what was happening, but it went so fast..." Sherlock trails off, visibly struggling with that part. "I though it was safer for you, if you didn't know. I know— I think I know that I shouldn't have chosen for you. I'm sorry."

John feels his breath stutter as he opens his mouth to answer. "Yes, but, at the time–" He swallows, overwhelmed. "At the time. You were saving me. Us. You weren't plotting to go on a grand adventure by yourself. You just did it to save us."

"Yes, that's all I was thinking about, John. I didn't have much time, and I did the best I could. I thought it was, at least."

John nods. "We'll talk about it later, all right? But, I— I understand now, Sherlock, I swear."

He starts after Greg, but Sherlock calls after him. "Wait!" John turns to look at him, and Sherlock's expression is lost and fragile. "Why?" He takes John by the wrist and raises his arm between them. John's hand is clenched in a tight fist, his knuckles white. "Why are you so angry then?"

John unclenches his fist and brings his fingers to Sherlock's face, brushing his cheek once, softly. "It's not you. I'm not angry with you, okay?"

Sherlock presses a small kiss in John's palm, then lets go of his hand. "You have to go."

"Don't forget to text, I'll come join you as soon as I can. Don't go running alone into anything dangerous."

"I'll wait for you," Sherlock says with a quick smile. 

John snorts fondly and takes off at a jog after Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not beta'd or Brit-picked, so I apologise for any and all mistakes. 
> 
> Is the case's plot okay? Do you like how things are progressing for the boys? I have no more perspective on it and rewrites are torture. Would love some comments on what you think so far :)


	6. Chapter 6

In the car, John asks Greg to borrow his phone and sends a quick text to Mary. 

\- I'm writing from Greg's phone, mine is dead, sorry. Molly was kidnapped, but we think we know where they've gone so I'm going to help get her back. If there's a problem call me on this number. -John   
\- Poor Molly! I hope she's OK. Text me when you can. What about Sherlock?  
\- He stayed to investigate in London in case we were wrong.   
\- You'd think he'd want to be there for Molly after all she's done for him. Anyway, good luck darling. 

John hesitates, but doesn't answer that last text. He hands Greg his phone back with a 'thanks.'

As they weave around traffic in the busy streets of East London, John tries to think of a way to broach the subject of Sherlock's— Of his absence. Greg, however, beats him to it. 

"So, did you two have time to, hum, talk?" 

"He told me, yeah, that there were snipers. For you and me, and for Mrs. Hudson? And that's why Molly helped. They saved us, then?"

"Yeah, with Mycroft's help, too," Greg says. They stop at a red light, and he drums his fingers on the wheel a few times before going on. "Did you really not know? Why did you think he did it? You never asked him?" His tone is incredulous, and John sees him stare at him a bit. Then the light turns green and Greg has to concentrate on driving again. 

The questions twist something in John's stomach, hitting at the same painful spot Sherlock's words tore open a few minutes ago. He looks straight ahead, and breathes before answering. 

"No, I never asked. At first, I was so, so, angry. And then, he saved me from the bonfire— God, how many times did he save me? After that, we were going on cases again, and he kind of made me forgive him. I don't know that I did, really, but I tried not to think about it. I suppose that's why I never asked; I didn't want to think about it anymore. And there was Mary, and the wedding, and the pregnancy. And he was shot. It simply never came up." He rubs at his mouth before risking a glance at Greg. "When did he tell you?"

"He didn't, actually. Mycroft did." 

"Mycroft?" John asks, surprised. 

"Yeah. We don't see eye to eye on much, but— I was there, before you came along. The both of us saw Sherlock through some pretty hard times. The drugs, as you know, and, if you think he was reckless when you met him... Well. We were a tag team of sorts, for years. Mycroft was the stick, and I was the carrot, I guess, with the cases. We never got very far, but he was clean at least. We've kept the habit, even when there was no need, while you were living with him."

There's a ton of questions competing for attention in John's mind. Like 'You really think I made a difference?' 'How could you tell?' 'You do realise Sherlock is an adult?' 'So, you and Mycroft, how does it work? Do you discuss Sherlock over tea and crumpets?' 'Or does he abduct you every time he wants to have a conversation?'

Somehow what comes out is, "How did you react when you first saw Sherlock again?"

Greg clears his throat. "I hugged him."

John exhales slowly, smothering the anguished sound lodged in his throat. 

"I take it you didn't react as enthusiastically," Greg says, glancing at him. Whatever he sees in John's face makes him add hastily, "Hey, you had every right to be angry. Especially if you didn't know. I get it, all right? And I'm sure he does, too. He might have had good reasons, but that doesn't change the fact that he put you through Hell."

"He tried to explain. When he got back. But I wouldn't listen." 

"Yeah, well, you weren't ready to listen, now you are. All's well that ends well."

"But if I'd known before, maybe it would have changed things. Maybe I wouldn't— Maybe he wouldn't have—"

They've left the city now, and they're moving fast on the motorway, warehouses and suburban houses blurring by the window. Greg is driving efficiently, slotting the car in every gap available in the heavy traffic. Somehow, it makes it easier for John to talk to him, but there's a lot he still can't articulate. 

"Maybe what?" Greg prompts him. "Is this about Mary? I'm a detective, you know; I can observe well enough, despite what Sherlock says. You were living with him again, right? Until recently? I get that he was hurt, but you and Mary have a baby on the way, so I guess there was more to it. Do you regret marrying her?" Greg squeezes the wheel, clearly uncomfortable with the topic, but he soldiers on. "I know it's none of my business, but there's something I learned the hard way about marriage. I stayed with my ex a long time because of the kids. In the end, it just prolonged everyone's misery for nothing. Sherlock was right, the bastard, she was never going to change, and I was never going to be okay with who she was. If I'd accepted that earlier, I would have saved myself a lot of pain." He fidgets a little before continuing. "And I know you two are close, but I also know Sherlock works really hard to hide what he's feeling. So, you may or may not know it, but he wasn't all right when you were apart. Not by a long shot. If you— Be careful with him, all right? Or don't lead him on, at least. If you're going to be with Mary, be with her, but be honest with Sherlock, yeah?"

By now, Greg looks pretty ill at ease, but also determined, and John realises that Mycroft is not the only one overprotective of Sherlock to contend with. He also realises, with some surprise, that no part of him is tempted to deny Greg's assumption. There's no 'it's not like that' poised on the tip of his tongue, no 'not gay' waiting to come out. Finally being sure of Sherlock swept away any lingering fear or shame. 

Still, he doesn't quite know what to say to Greg, without getting into the whole A.G.R.A. shit show. And he can't reveal anything to him without putting the D.I. in an untenable position. John isn't quite ready yet to send the mother of his child to jail. Or more to the point, into hiding. 

"Greg, it's— I know it might not seem like it, but Sherlock and I are figuring things out, and it's going well, I think. Or as well as can be expected given the situation. I'm seeing Mary through the birth, but after that it's over."

"Does Sherlock know that?"

"I think he does, yeah."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Not in so many words, maybe, but—"

"Tell him, then," Greg says, frowning a little. 

John is starting to get a little defensive. "Oi, it's not as if he's so very forthcoming."

Greg scoffs. "Right. Pull the other one, mate. Don't forget, I was at your wedding."

"Oh," John exhales, sheepish. He'd half convinced himself he was imagining things, but apparently not. "You caught that."

"John, astronauts caught it."

They both snort quietly, and John returns to his contemplation of the passing scenery. They've now been driving for half an hour, and Greg shows no sign of slowing down. 

"Do you still know where to go?" John asks. 

"Yeah, the gps' itinerary has been updated several times since we left the city. I really, really don't want to know how Mycroft's doing it," Greg says, shaking his head. 

"I hate to say it, but it's not the first time I'm glad he doesn't have to jump through any legal hoops."

"And I hate to agree, but..."

After that, they both fall into a pensive silence, as the car speeds down the now mostly empty fast lane. 

 

They drive for half an hour more, before the gps instructs them to leave the motorway. Soon they're leaving the main roads behind, entering a very bucolic—if a little bleak at this time of year—stretch of countryside. After a few turns, Greg is forced to slow down significantly, as they find themselves on a single-track road, lined with tall hedges. There's no visibility, and the small gaps between shrubs only open onto farmhouses or small pastures. As they take turn after turn onto narrow roads, John loses all sense of direction. 

"This is a bloody maze," Greg mutters. 

"Yeah, an empty, bloody maze. We haven't passed another car since we left the main road. They'll hear us coming from a mile."

"Fuck, you're right." 

Greg slows down even more, then parks the car on the first passing place they come across. He turns to John. "We're not far, according to the gps. Let's go on foot."

They leave the car there, and jog down the road; their harsh breathing and bird songs are the only sounds breaking the silence. They cut across a field, find the dirt path indicated by the gps, and finally arrive at a small meadow, where, right in the middle, the kidnappers' car is parked, easily recognisable from the surveillance tape. The two men are seating in the front seats, chatting. 

Greg and John hover for a few seconds at the end of the path, unsure what to make of the peaceful scene. Greg then squares his shoulders and strides towards the car, John at his back. He knocks forcefully on the driver's window. 

"Police! Please come out."

The driver and his companion get out, unhurried. 

"What's this about?" the driver, a tall blond with square shoulders, asks. 

"CCTV places you at the scene of a kidnapping," Greg says, showing them his badge. "Where is the woman you took?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, mate, there's no lady here. Unless you count Vincent," says the second man, just as tall and muscled, jerking his thumb towards the driver. 

The two men guffaw. 

"Shut up!" Greg shouts. "Open the boot, right now." 

"Hey, hey. No need to get shirty," the blond man says lazily, "I'll open it." He strolls to the back of the car, and opens the boot, then steps aside with a smirk. 

There is, of course, nothing in it. 

Greg makes a show of inspecting it, as well as the backseat, and the underside of the car. There is no obvious trace of Molly. Greg finally straightens up, scowling. The two men stand watching him, a bored smile on their faces. 

"Can I?" John asks, gesturing to the back of the car. 

"Be my guest," Greg says, as he levels a death glare at their two suspects. 

John leans into the car through one of the back doors, and pushes a hand between the seat and the backrest. He feels around for a bit, before he feels a thin edge of plastic. It takes him a few tries but he gets it out. It's Molly's ID badge from Bart's. Exiting the car, he hands it out to Greg with a grim smile. "She knew we wouldn't be far behind, and trusted us—well, probably Sherlock—to find it." 

Before any of the two men has time to react, Greg and John have each caught one by the neck, slammed them against the car, and handcuffed them. 

"Now, gentlemen," Greg says, crushing the windpipe of the driver on the car's roof with obvious relish, "which one of you wants to tell me where Miss Hooper is?"

The suspects now look far less smug, but they remain silent. For a few minutes, Greg threatens and exhorts, promises deals, but the two men remain close-mouthed. John and Greg end up stashing them roughly into the backseat. 

Now, a little ways from the car, Greg is pacing, while John stands, his arms crossed. 

"Sherlock was right," John says, "it was all to keep us chasing our tails. They won't say anything, we're meant to keep wasting our time."

"Yeah, but what do they want with Molly? It's one thing to get us here, but who has her now, and why?"

"No idea. Let's call Sherlock and update him, all right? Maybe he found something."

John takes out his burner, and tries calling, but is only rewarded with a series of loud beeps. He checks the screen, and sure enough, there's no service. 

"Shit, Greg can you try? There's no signal on mine."

Greg takes out his phone, but shakes his head. "Me neither, let's go back to civilisation."

As they're walking back to the car, John feels his dread growing. "Fuck, Greg, I don't like this. At all. How much do you want to bet it's not a coincidence there's no coverage around here?" 

"Let's hurry," Greg says grimly. 

They slide into the front seats of the kidnappers' car and drive back to Greg's car. They check their phones there but there's still no signal. 

"Back to the main road, then," Greg says. 

They grab the two men from their car, and shove them impatiently in Greg's police car. 

While Greg is driving them back through the maze of tall hedges, John keeps his eyes on his phone, praying for just one little bar to appear instead of the ominous 'no service.' As he's worrying about Sherlock and Molly, a thought occurs to him. 

"Where did Mycroft say he lost track of them in London?" he asks Greg. "Maybe they brought Molly somewhere nearby?"

"Near Betts Park, south of Crystal Palace. But that'd be a pretty big area to search."

"Betts Park?" John repeats, half to himself. "That's not far from our place."

"Your place? With Mary?" Greg asks. 

But John doesn't hear him. The puzzle is finally complete, and he's just come to a realisation probably akin to one of Sherlock's deductions. He'll never be able to enjoy the feeling, however, because the only logical conclusion fills him with horror. 

There is one person who was immediately aware of Sherlock's return and has access to their phones. A person who also knows what Molly means to them, has the skills and charm to manage a international criminal operation, is a trained snipper and a remorseless killer. A person who lives near Betts Park. John feels true terror at the thought of what she could do to Sherlock—what she's already done—what she could do with their daughter, and how she might use Molly. True terror, yes, and a stark absence of surprise. 

Just as he's about to say something, anything, to Greg, to get him to accelerate even more, his phone begins to beep, announcing a new text. And another, and another, and another. With trembling fingers, John manages to open his inbox. 

\- I tried to call but got your voicemail. I've found a new lead in the case. I'm not sure how to tell you this. -SH  
\- It seems Mary was at the same piece of waste ground as the killer from Rockwell Station. It's not far from your house, so it could be a coincidence, but you know what I think about those. -SH  
\- Add to that the fact that the bullet that killed the assassin found in the post office was the same calibre, make, and model as the one retrieved from my chest. -SH   
\- I think you can infer the rest. -SH  
\- I'm sorry, John. -SH  
\- Mycroft has lost contact with the agents charged with surveilling Mary. -SH  
\- I have to assume that Molly is her insurance policy, and that you won't have found her, wherever you are -SH  
\- I'm so sorry John, I have to go. -SH   
\- I know how this will all look to you. You, sent away by a diversionary tactic, me, facing our adversary alone. I thought this time there would be two of us. If there was any way to wait for you, I would, but I can't. Not with Molly's life at stake. -SH  
\- John. I can't tell you over text, but I hope you know that I -SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I got really sick (ah, Spring!). Next chapter is nearly ready, but I want to get the revisions just right, since it's the last (although I'll probably add an epilogue), so it might be another week.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! And also, sorry, but this isn't actually the last chapter. It kept getting longer with the rewrites, so I decided to cut it in two, and post the first part sooner rather than later. I hope you enjoy it!

Greg insists to drop by Scotland Yard, to lock up the suspects and gather back-up, so John asks to be left near his house. Contrary to his expectations, Greg barely tries to talk him out of it. He probably knows a lost cause when he sees one. 

John walks down the street towards his house, cautiously looking around, unsure what to look for. It's the early evening; the light is low, the street lamps already lit, and everything is quiet. When he's three houses away from his own, he decides to turn into an alley, and risk cutting through the back gardens. After all, it's perfectly all right if one of his neighbours calls the cops. 

He scrambles up a wall, through dense hedges, scraping his palms and his cheeks, and finally lands in his and Mary's unkempt garden. All his attempts at stealth, however, have been for nothing. 

Light spills out onto the garden, through the open French doors of the living room. In the centre of the room, Mary stands, looking straight at him. At her feet, Sherlock is kneeling, and she's holding a gun to his head. She has another gun in her left hand, pointing down at the ground, where Molly is lying on her side, her wrists and ankles bound. Her face is half against the carpet, half hidden by her hair, and she's not moving. Mary shakes her head at John with mock fondness. 

"Welcome home, honey," she says, her cheery voice carrying easily in the quiet, "I have to say, I was hoping you'd be a little longer. Mycroft Holmes is a much more rational man to deal with." She sighs. "But I suppose we'll have to make do. After all, I have more than enough to keep you in line. You can't hurt me, not while I'm carrying your child," she smiles coldly. "And if you try to stop me from leaving, I have not one, but two of your dearest friends at my disposal, to remind you what happens when I'm not happy with someone."

She drags the tip of her gun through Sherlock's hair, almost gently, and John wants to rip it from her hands. He wants, frankly, to hurt her, and doesn't even feel an ounce of shame at the urge. 

Mary cocks her head to the side. "Nothing to say, darling? Well, it's true that there's not much you can say or do. Just like our dear Sherlock here." She lowers the gun along his ear and presses it into the hollow of his right cheek. "I can understand the appeal, now. Having someone at my mercy. Right. Here." She punctuates each word with a shove against Sherlock's head, forcing him to bend his neck at an obviously painful angle. "Magnussen was on to something, but he was much too involved into his little head games, rest his soul. He lost sight of the practical side of things. I won't be making that mistake." She chuckles, and twists the gun against Sherlock's skin this way and that. "Thanks, by the way, for taking care of him for me. Although it wasn't really for me, was it, Sherlock?" She looks at John through her eyelashes, smiling coyly. "Have you realised, yet, just how in love with you he is? Poor dear."

John ignores her. "What do you want Mary?"

"Oh my god! You know!" Her eyes narrow, and her facetiousness disappears entirely. "And you're okay with it. More than okay. Well, aren't you full of surprises. But I don't think I like this one," she says, punctuating her sentence with a blow to Sherlock's temple. 

Sherlock's face crumples in pain, but he remains silent. John takes a few steps forward, almost involuntarily. He stops on the threshold. "What. Do. You. Want."

"Oh, nothing you could give me, darling," Mary answers, her fake cheeriness back. "I called Mycroft Holmes a few minutes ago to let him know I had his little brother. So courageous of Sherlock to try to save little Molly all by himself, but really, he had to know I was waiting for him." She tisks. "I was going to leave with Molly, as insurance that I wasn't followed—much more practical to travel light—but now, I think not. I think I'll take Sherlock, despite the inconvenience. Besides, I have a few friends who'd be delighted to see you again, wouldn't they?" She directs her last question to Sherlock, who closes his eyes. 

Yet his voice is strong when he answers. "Do your worst, Mary. Cleverer people than you have tried." 

"What makes you think I'm going to let you leave with my daughter and Sherlock?" John asks her, barely keeping himself from shouting. "I might has well shoot you now and take my chances."

Mary laughs bitterly. "I have no doubt that you would shoot me, husband, but not if it means risking their lives."

On the floor, Molly stirs and tries to lift her head, looking around. John is relieved to see that she's awake, at least. 

Mary pays her no mind, however. She keeps her eyes on John, the sadness in them apparently genuine. "I thought we had a shot at making it work, John. A family, a house— I really wanted that, with you."

"Yeah," John says, "with your little hobby as a criminal mastermind on the side. It would have been lovely. Do you really think I wouldn't have found out?" As he's talking, he sees Molly finding Sherlock's eyes, the two of them trying to communicate silently. "It was only a matter of time. I would have taken you down, and you wouldn't have seen it coming," he adds, playing up his anger. 

"Not if it wasn't for this one, no," Mary says, pushing Sherlock viciously with her gun. 

"John would have figured you out, Mary, he's pretty damn smart," Sherlock says, interrupting them. "And you don't deserve him if you haven't realised that."

"And you think you do, you freak?" Mary spats, shoving Sherlock to the floor with her foot. She takes a step forward, her gun pointed unerringly at his head. "I might as well kill you now," she says, tilting her head. "I'd still have enough leverage, and nothing could compare to seeing John watch you die, powerless to stop it. Hum, yes," she ponders, "I think I'll do that." She thumbs off the security of her gun. 

"Mary, no!" John yells, taking out his own gun. 

"Really, John?" Mary says, sounding almost bored. "As if you were going to shoot a woman nine months pregnant with your child." 

At her back, Molly is crawling, coming closer. 

"Mary," John calls out, his voice choked, "please don't do this."

"Oh, but I will," she says, looking back down at Sherlock, taking aim. 

Later, John won't remember making a decision. Maybe it's his military training, maybe it's his instinct to protect Sherlock, as he's been doing since the first day. He raises his gun and trains it on Mary. 

She gasps, and reflexively brings both her guns up, aiming them at John.

With the advantage of surprise, John fires a millisecond before she does, and Molly kicks her knees with both feet. 

Mary crumples to the floor, one of her shots going wide, while the other grazes John's scalp. 

Sherlock springs up. "John!" He shouts, anguished. 

But John is already running to Mary, throwing himself down at her side. She's not breathing. He starts CPR, while Sherlock kneels at his side, checking his head wound anxiously.

"John, you're bleeding a lot." 

"It's nothing. You have to help me. Untie Molly, she's a doctor. Then call an ambulance." John spares him a glance. "Please, hurry, we have to save her."

"John," Sherlock says gently, "you shot her through the head, there's no way—"

"My daughter! We can still perform a caesarean. But we have to hurry. Go!"

Sherlock jumps to his feet, and John focuses back on preforming the best damn CPR of his life, trusting him to do everything in his power to help. 

A moment later, a pair of small, slender hands join his on Mary's chest. He notices faintly that his wrists and hands are covered in blood, his own, trickling down from his head and along his arm, but he doesn't feel anything, except a vague prickling above his left hear. 

"I can go on for a while," he tells Molly, "but can you take over the breaths?" 

She nods and shuffles up a little, then tilts Mary's head in her hands. 

"27, 28, 29," John counts. "Go."

Molly pinches Mary's nose and administers mouth-to-mouth. Then John resumes compressions. They fall into a rhythm, silent and hyper-focused. 

Another stretch of time passes, difficult for John to measure, and Sherlock is kneeling at his side again. With one hand he presses a cloth to John's head wound, with the other he holds a phone to his own ear. 

"John, Mycroft is clearing the way for the ambulance from and to the nearest neonatal unit. He also says the helicopter Mary had requested is nearby. Which would you prefer?"

"Ambulance. We need the equipment."

John hears Sherlock relay the information to Mycroft, then hang up. 

"They'll be here in three minutes," Sherlock says, now pressing on his wound with both hands. 

John is prepared for these three minutes to stretch interminably—this is not his first brush with death after all, but he's still surprised, when, after what feels like thousands of compressions, the ambulance has yet to arrive. 

At some point, Greg and a few yarders arrive, but they can only stand around and wait. Sherlock sends one of them to wait for the ambulance in front of the house. 

It does arrive, eventually, and they're suddenly surrounded by two paramedics and a stretcher. Molly briefs them in a few words, and John is grateful. He doesn't want to lose count. 

They prepare to lift Mary's body, but as John starts to get up, his head spins and he stumbles back, into Sherlock's chest.

The paramedics install Mary on the stretcher while taking over CPR, and start wheeling her away. John tries to follow, but his legs won't hold him up anymore, and Sherlock has to help him stand, soon joined by Greg. 

"Don't worry," Molly says, "I'll go with them, tell them everything they need to know, you follow in the second ambulance." 

"Second—" John tries to ask, but it comes out as a mumble. 

"Yes, John," Sherlock says through gritted teeth. "I called two, it's obvious you're not well, despite your claims to the contrary." To anyone else, he would sound angry and dismissive, but John knows that he's actually very, very worried. 

"'M fine," John tries to reassure him. "Wha 'bout you Molly?" he somehow thinks to inquire.

"I'm fine, John," Molly answers. "As in actually fine. It's only a few cuts and bruises, and I'll have them checked out, as soon as your baby has been delivered safely. I won't leave her side until I know she's all right, it's a promise."

And with that, everything goes black, as John loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger. If anybody is worried, just check the tags. :)
> 
> I would looove any comments you have for me, as I'm struggling a little to finish in a way that feels satisfactory (who doesn't?). 
> 
> Next (and last, for sure this time!) chapter up in a few days. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> Here, have copious helpings of sappiness :)

When John wakes up, he thinks for a moment that he's hallucinating. He's lying in a hospital bed, an IV line in his arm, but instead of old beige, or dirty green, the walls are each painted a different colour, peach, soft pink and baby blue. The room is light and airy, and the large window opens onto a well-kept enclosed garden, planted with evergreen trees and rows of daffodils in bloom. 

The room is silent, and no sound comes from behind the door; none of the usual bustle of a hospital, no running, no calls, no wheelchair squeaking on the linoleum, no television blasting from next door, no ringing or talking from the nurses' station. Just a steady whooshing sound and sporadic bird songs, incredibly loud in the eerie quiet. 

For a few disorienting seconds, John wonders if he's been wrong to dismiss religion all his life; if purgatory does actually exist, and is in fact a pleasant but uncanny version of a hospital. Or would that be hell? 

Then, a very soft but repetitive sucking sound has him turning his head to the left, away from the window. There, seated in a chair next to his bed, is Sherlock, feeding a baby. He's completely folded around the little bundle in his arms, carefully watching the incline of the bottle, unmoving, barely breathing. 

"Hey," John says softly. 

Sherlock's turns to him, and his face is immediately taken over by a soft smile. He quickly resumes his vigil of the baby, however, apparently worried she'll forget how to eat or breathe if she's not carefully watched. He might be right. John doesn't know much about babies; his paediatrics rotation is far behind him. 

"How do you feel?" Sherlock asks.

"Fine," John says, but amends his answer at Sherlock's irritated glance. "I feel weak, and a little woozy, but fine overall, really. What happened? How is she?"

"Oh! Do you want to hold her?" 

"No, no. Let her finish her bottle in peace."

"She's all right, John, perfectly all right," Sherlock says with quiet excitement. "She's five point forty two pounds and eighteen point thirty eight inches. A little on the small side, but perfectly proportioned. Like her father," he adds, with a shy but mischievous smile. 

"Oi! Who are you calling small?" John chuckles. 

"She was born by caesarean at 9:12pm last night," Sherlock continues, "and she's been feeding and sleeping ever since. Defecating as well, with great regularity. Enormous quantities of black faeces. You should see it John, it's fascinating. The midwives say it's perfectly normal, however. They say she's been a 'real trooper,' and that she's a very healthy baby. I've been keeping track of her weight, food intake, sleep, and defecation frequency in this little notebook they provide—nowhere near detailed enough, but handy until I can design a better one—and I have to say I agree with them." He hardly pauses for breath, and there is a happy quality to his voice, something very close to pride. "Oh, there you go, you finished it all, bravo," he continues, and John realises that he's now talking to the baby. It's not baby-talk exactly, but Sherlock's tone is melodious in a way that he's never heard before. 

Sherlock stands up, and props the baby on his shoulder, bouncing her gently, and tapping lightly on her back. His hands seem huge next to her body. Soon, she burps, regurgitating some milk on Sherlock's shirt, to which he pays no mind at all. John notices a series of dried white stains on both of his shoulders, before he turns to the bed, towards John. 

"Do you want to hold her, now?" He asks, then adds with a slight frown. "Do you feel up to it?" 

"Sure," John says, a little uncertain. "It should be okay on my lap." He fiddles with the commands of the bed, until he's sitting rather than reclining. 

Sherlock hands him the baby carefully, sitting at his side to do so. 

Holding his tiny daughter for the first time, John doesn't feel any grand sweep of emotion. He's not overwhelmed by her beauty, there is no instantaneous and all-encompassing love gripping him, no bolt to his heart. Instead, he feels warmth and contentment, and a peaceful sort of wonder. 

"What's her name?" he asks, somewhat stupidly. "Wait, wait. I know. I'm the one supposed to choose." He looks to Sherlock with a smile, but is met with a shuttered expression. 

Sherlock stands up cautiously from the bed. "John," he says gravely, "I'm very sorry about Mary, I understand that whatever you—"

"Sherlock, stop," John interrupts gently. "Please don't offer your condolences for a woman who shot you, and whom I killed myself." John pauses to swallow, a little shocked by his own words, though he's very lucid about his feelings. "I mourned Mary months ago. She— She shot you, right? The woman I married never existed, really, and— I felt nothing but anger for A.G.R.A. I'm sorry that my daughter won't have a mother, but if the alternative was to be raised by a murdering psychopath leading a criminal organisation, a woman who killed people for fun and profit... Well, I'm more than okay with the way things turned out."

Sherlock watches him attentively through his little speech, and a small smile slowly takes over his expression. 

"Are you saying," he asks, sitting back down next to John, "that she wasn't a very nice woman?" 

"And frankly, a bloody awful wife."  
John giggles, joined by Sherlock, then groans. "Oh god, we're terrible people. We shouldn't be allowed to raise a baby."

Realising the enormity of what he's just said, John looks up sharply at Sherlock. The latter, however, doesn't seem to think John has said anything particularly earth-shattering. He's looking at the baby with a besotted smile on his face, his pinky finger encircled in her ridiculously small hand. "I'm sure she'll turn out splendidly, John. She's quite perfect already. Granted, she might have a regrettable penchant for firearms, but at least, we won't have to worry when she's a teenager staying up past her curfew." 

Then Sherlock seems to realise what he's saying too. He stiffens and finds John's eyes, his own a mix of hope and worry. 

John lets his smile speak for him, and Sherlock's expression relaxes. 

"So," John says, "what are we going to name her?" 

Sherlock's grin is huge. His eyes nearly disappear in his wrinkles. 

"Didn't you have any ideas?" he asks. 

"Well, Mary had chosen Madison..." Both men wrinkle their noses. "But it never felt right to me. Too American, maybe? Too Mary, that's for sure." 

Sherlock chuckles. "I suppose you'd like a good old-fashioned English name? No nonsense for Doctor John Watson." His voice is low, and John looks down at his daughter to see that she's falling asleep in the crook of his arm, still holding on to Sherlock's finger. 

"I don't know about old-fashioned, but yeah, I'd like to keep things pretty simple, I guess," John whispers. "Although, I have to admit, weird names can kind of grow on you."

"Are you about to confess to a secret fondness for Mycroft?" 

"Shut up, you git."

"Shhh, you're going to wake her, she was overdue for a nap."

With a bittersweet pang—more sweet than bitter—John realises that Sherlock is the one who's been with his daughter from the first moment. The one who's already learned how to change and feed her, and how to put her to sleep. The one who responded to her cries all night, who kept her warm and safe. He wonders idly how he managed to clear it with the hospital—probably Mycroft's doing, but can't be arsed to ask. 

Shaking himself out of his contemplation, John says, "I hadn't really settled on anything, but I like Emma, Jane, or Elizabeth. Maybe Helen. Or Emily? Without any conviction, though. Any ideas?" 

"I hadn't really thought about it... What about— Hum, or maybe not?"

"What?"

"Well, what do you think about Martha?"

John thinks about the way Mrs. Hudson welcomed him with open arms since that very first day, about the way she's cared for them via tea and biscuits, and about the way she's looked after them with kind words and fond tutting. How she's tried time and time again to open his eyes to what was right in front of him. 

"That's brilliant, actually," John says. "Perfect."

"Really?" Sherlock asks. "You know she'll cry. A lot. And will probably well up every time she sees your daughter for the next three months, at least," he says with a grimace, betrayed by the uplifted corner of his mouth.

"Our daughter," John says. "If you want it. Our daughter Martha, who makes her namesake sniffle a lot." 

Sherlock stays silent, lowers his head. John begins to worry that he's pushed him too far, too fast. Then, he sees that Sherlock is nodding almost imperceptibly, repeatedly, and that his eyes are red and glistening below his fringe. 

"Come here," John rasps, softly. 

Their foreheads meet, both of them bent awkwardly above the baby in John's arms. He nuzzles at Sherlock's cheek, trying to get him to raise his head. When their lips touch, it's the most perfect kiss of John's life, despite the awkwardness, despite the catheter pulling at his forearm, despite the wet chuckles preventing their lips to meet properly. 

When they part, they look at each other in silence. John has so much to say to Sherlock, but, apparently, his mind has reached beatitude, and he can only stare sappily in Sherlock's eyes. The moment stretches. John's cheeks hurt from smiling so much; he's never been so incandescently happy. 

So, of course, Sherlock has to go and ruin it. He finally drops his gaze and begins to fidget with the hem of the sheet. 

"John, are you sure this is what you want? I mean—" He inhales deeply, a little shakily. "Are you sure you want me? I'm not certain I'm the best person with whom to build a conventional family unit. Actually, I'm positive I'm not. You know about, well, about everything. Aren't you worried I'll be a terrible influence on— on Martha?" 

John nudges Sherlock's hand with his knee. "What about me? Aren't you worried I'll be a terrible influence?"

"You know what I mean."

"Not really, no. You're a genius, and, unfortunately, I know that you're ready to die for the people you care about. A bit too ready, actually," John grumbles. "A little unconventionality never hurt anyone, on the contrary. There's no one I'd trust more with her."

In response, Sherlock lies down next to him, his nose smooched against John's hip, one leg over his lap, one ankle hooked over the foot of the bed. "All right," he murmurs. 

The position looks highly uncomfortable, but, after snuggling a bit closer, Sherlock's breathing slows down, and he's soon fast asleep. 

Looking down at the two people he loves most in the world, both sleeping against him, John thinks that if this is happiness, it's not overrated. Not overrated at all. 

 

Later, a paediatric nurse comes in with a soft knock and takes Martha's temperature. The baby wakes and the nurse changes her diaper, hands her back to John with a bottle. Someone brings him lunch on a tray, and he eats it with one hand, Martha asleep once more on his chest. The doctor who admitted him comes to check on him, and they have a quiet conversation. His lunch tray is taken away. Martha cries and he calls for help with the button the nurse showed him earlier. Another nurse comes and helps him with the diaper, gives the baby a bath to soothe her. Greg brings flowers and stammers awkwardly for a few minutes, apparently completely ill-equipped to handle the sight of a cuddly Sherlock, as well as the situation as a whole. John explains to him about A.G.R.A., and Greg appears relieved, but still beats a hasty retreat. Another nurse pokes her head in to ask if they need anything. 

Through it all, Sherlock sleeps. Between visitors, John watches him; his sweaty curls all dishevelled, his black eyelashes against his pale, pale skin, the little bit of drool at the corner of his chapped mouth, the lines on his brow, his wrinkled, stained shirt, his long bony fingers, the hairy bit of calf where his trousers rode up. He's never seen anything more beautiful. 

 

Towards the end of the afternoon, John hears a soft knock at the door, and this time, when he calls out 'come in,' Sherlock finally stirs. Molly and Mrs. Hudson enter the room together, and he groans, hiding his face against John's bum. 

"Hello there, how are my two boys doing?" Mrs. Hudson asks, not paying him any mind. "Dear Molly was kind enough to wait for me in the lobby, I always get lost in these hospitals, really, you'd think a place where they handle life and death would have better signage. Did you know you're in the maternity wing? How nice. Anyway, dreadful business with Mary, I'm so sorry John. I mean, I knew she was evil from the start, but not that evil! Although, if my experience with my late husband told me anything, it's that you never know if the person you marry won't turn out to be a murderous psychopath. I should have seen it coming, really—"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupts, springing up from the bed, "meet Martha Watson," he says with a flourish towards the baby. 

Mrs. Hudson looks between the two of them, looks at the baby, then bursts into tears. She leans against Sherlock, sobbing on his chest. He levels an 'I told you so' glare at John. 

"Martha Molly Watson, actually," John says. "After the woman who saved her life and the life of her father. Twice." 

"Oh, John, you don't have to, I was glad to help," Molly says, flustered, but smiling hugely. 

"I want to," John says firmly. "We want to."

"Right," Sherlock says, while patting Mrs. Hudson awkwardly on the back. "Martha Molly Watson."

"And you'll all be coming back to 221b, right?" Mrs. Hudson asks, her voice muffled by Sherlock's shirt. 

"Well," Sherlock answers hesitantly, looking at John, "I'm sure Mycroft could have his minions baby-proof the flat."

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," John says, "we're coming home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for the plotty part, I really hope you enjoyed it. An epilogue is coming, where I'll try to earn that m rating. 
> 
> I'd love, love, love to hear your thoughts in the comments.


	9. Funny, but When You're near Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my attempt at a fluffy epilogue.  
> Beta by the lovely and patient Silvergirl, thank you so much for the encouragements! <3   
> All remaining mistakes are my own.

It goes like this: they go home to 221b three days after the birth. John has recuperated from his head wound and subsequent blood loss, and Martha's weight has begun to go up a little after the initial post-birth drop. Paediatrician and surgeon have both signed on to their discharge, and they leave the hospital, one late morning in March. They're picked up by a black car, equipped—strangely but somehow unsurprisingly—with a state-of-the-art, rotating baby seat. 

Mycroft's minions have also baby-proofed the flat, and turned the upstairs room into a nursery, complete with rocking chair, tasteful white crib, and matching furniture. 

Great quantities of baby clothes have appeared. Mrs. Hudson and Molly bought a lot of cute outfits with pretty prints, bows and matching headwear. Mycroft sent some designer items. Mrs. and Mr. Holmes chose nice classic pieces in neutral tones, white and light blue, which are delivered the day they get home. Harry sent a gag red onesie with 'my two dads are the bomb' written on the front, where the o in 'bomb' is replaced by a grinning bomb with a lit fuse (it makes Sherlock blush and John grit his teeth, and they bury it at the back of a drawer). 

Greg ends up being the real saviour, however, when he comes over with two suitcases packed full of onesies, pyjamas, and winter gear for newborns, a good part of it in the smallest size available—a.k.a. 'tiny baby.' Sherlock takes the fact that there are three different sizes for newborns as a personal affront to logical thinking in general and to himself in particular, and stalks away to investigate on John's laptop. Greg has a cup of tea and coos at the baby, while John takes the opportunity to organise the mountains of onesies. 

"He was right," John says after he's gone. "No one brought anything under three months. Thank God we know one person who has kids."

"Hum, yes. Very thoughtful of him," Sherlock says, rocking Martha in the crook of his right arm, utterly at ease with her. "Although we'll have to supplement it with a few outfits. She can hardly go out like that."

"Really Sherlock, I'm sure you're exaggerating," John says, from where he's still digging into the second suitcase. "Plenty of it is perfectly fine." 

His answer is met with a pregnant silence, and he looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock holding up a bright pink fleece coverall with silver sequined flowers. 

"All right," John concedes with a smirk. "We'll replace this one. It's a bit..."

"Ostentatious? Over-the-top? Loud? Conspicuous?" Sherlock rattles. "Speaking of which, what do you think of the pram Mycroft chose?"

"Did he choose it, or did he just borrow it from Kate and William?" 

"I checked, it's brand new," Sherlock answers earnestly. 

The push-chair thingy parked in the hallway beside Mrs. Hudson's door is a monstrosity in dark blue and cream, perched on a shiny curved chassis, with four big chrome spoked wheels and—of all things—white tyres. It looks like it came straight out of a 1948 documentary on the royal family. 

"I know it's ridiculous," John says, "but we should really thank Mycroft. I don't know how we would have coped without him. He did in three days what most people do in nine months."

"Don't worry, he just told an underling to buy the most expensive things available. He doesn't care what we do with it," Sherlock says dismissively. "Anyway, it's nothing urgent. We can carry her around with that kangaroo-pouch-like apparatus. It seems highly practical."

"You mean the baby-carrier? Sure, it should be handy."

And so it goes. They begin to carry Martha around in it. Sherlock, however, does some research, and soon after, several long and sturdy pieces of organic fabric in tasteful colours are delivered from Sweden. John watches, bemused, as Sherlock swaddles himself into one of them, and snuggles Martha against his chest. "See, John? Better hip and lumbar support when it's done right. And it goes much better with my coat." John has to agree, but he can't for the life of him learn to do the knots. 

It doesn't matter much, since Sherlock is the one toting Martha around most days, while John goes back to work at the clinic. They've agreed to stop going on cases for a while, so they need the income. 

John thought Sherlock would go stir crazy after a few days, but that's not at all what happens. Instead, he embarks on a quest to learn everything about babies, seemingly undaunted by the staggering amount of research and literature on the subject. He takes a baby first aid course, baby massage classes, and mummy and me singing lessons. 

Things settle down into a kind of routine. A bit frantic, yes, but John hears it's normal for new parents. He begins to wonder, however, what exactly is normal for them. They are parents, but are they actually a couple? If days are packed full of work, bottles, trips to the grocery and diaper changes, nights are another matter entirely. 

They sleep in the same room, in the same bed, but nothing has happened since that day at the hospital, since that first shy kiss. From the moment John discovered that his room would be transformed into a nursery, that they would be sharing Sherlock's bedroom, he hoped that things would proceed naturally. Several times, he wakes up to find himself entangled with Sherlock, their limbs sticky with sweat, silly grins blooming on their lips as they emerge from sleep and find each other's eyes. He thought that after that, he and Sherlock would seek each other one evening or at night, that they would touch and explore in little stolen moments under the covers. That it would take time, perhaps, since everything was new, but that it would be worth it. 

Several elements conspire to thwart this vague plan of his. Most of them have to do with Martha. They're both exhausted and tend to grab some sleep whenever they can, rather than going to bed together at a determined hour; their nights are interspersed with cries and whimpers; and, to top it all off, she ends up sleeping with them most nights, either on Sherlock's chest, or in the wicker cradle on the floor next to their bed. It turns out that going up and down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night while heavily sleep-deprived gets old really fast. 

But another reason John doesn't dare touch Sherlock in that way, is that he's nervous, frankly, and unsure how to proceed. He remembers both Irene and Mycroft insinuating that Sherlock was inexperienced, he remembers Sherlock himself saying that he was married to his work, he remembers Janine. 

John is confused, and the more time passes, the less the little touches and half-hinted promises seem substantial, the more his doubts grow. 

He doesn't doubt Sherlock's affection or need for him, but he begins to wonder if what they feel for each other is as reciprocal as he hoped. Maybe Sherlock is perfectly content to have his best friend back and to share a bed with him for convenience and cuddles. John's feelings, however, are very much romantic (and sexual). If Sherlock doesn't want anything more, John will simply have to accept it, because, no matter what, this is it for him, no more dates, no more wives. Sherlock is the love of his life, and he'll take whatever he can get. And while he'd be stupid not to at least try, he doesn't know how to broach the subject. He's scared, and he waits, and the days pass. 

 

Things come to a head one Friday night, almost three weeks after they left the hospital. John finishes work early, and he decides to pick Martha and Sherlock up from whatever activity is scheduled that day. 

When he arrives at the address Sherlock texted him, John can see that the class is winding down through the studio's windows. A few mums are gathered around the teacher, babies in arms, getting last-minute advice, while others are rolling up their exercise mats. Yoga, then. All the women are wearing tight, colourful ensembles, and Sherlock stands out in grey, loose trousers and a sleeveless top, the soft fabric clinging to his hips and pectorals. John can't take his eyes off him. But then, the warm, yearning glow in his abdomen turns into burning acid, as he sees the instructor's hand on Sherlock's upper arm. She's a beautiful woman, lean but curvy, with long black hair and big brown eyes. She looks like Janine. 

John pushes the door open and strides up to them, barely noticing the stir his abrupt entrance causes. At first, he feels a little foolish for his reaction when he realizes that the teacher is showing Sherlock a new hold for Martha. Guiding his hands around the baby, she's explaining how the posture will help soothe the stomachaches she's been suffering from. Sherlock sends him a welcoming smile, but stays focused on the explanations. Then, John's rage returns, twofold, as he sees the young woman's hands lingering on Sherlock's biceps, caressing his skin all the way to his knuckles. "That's it," she's saying, "you're doing really well." As if he's mastering an incredible skill. John is standing at her elbow, and she's looking up adoringly at Sherlock, so she hasn't noticed his arrival yet. 

John steps to Sherlock's side and places his arm around his waist. From the corner of his eye he can see Sherlock's cheeks redden. "Hello darlings," he says, leaning down to kiss Martha's downy scalp. He then straightens, baring his teeth at the yoga instructor. 

"Oh, hello," she says, flustered. She looks between the two of them, and John can see from her expression the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. 

Instead of turning defensive, however, she smiles warmly at John. "It's nice to see someone picking up his family," she says. And John thinks he can detect an apology in the small nod she gives him. "Have a nice weekend, see you next week, Sherlock."

Sherlock simply inclines his head, and when she's turned away, he whispers in John's ear, "'Darlings?' John, what's happening to you? Are you all right?" He watches John carefully, his brow crinkled. He looks, in John's opinion, adorably befuddled. 

John laughs, which apparently confuses Sherlock anew, and makes him even more adorable. He can't help himself; he grabs Sherlock by the nape and pulls, bringing their lips together. He kisses him, quick and dirty, his tongue slipping in at Sherlock's gasp of surprise. 

When John lets him go, Sherlock's blush has spread to his entire face and chest. John takes his free hand to guide him out of the studio, and he follows mutely. On the way out, a few of the women glance at them, some with a knowing smile, and John meets their gazes with a smug one of his own. 

On the pavement outside, as he's helping Sherlock arrange Martha into the folds of the wrap, John gathers his courage. It's now or never. 

"Sherlock, what do you think about asking Mrs. Hudson to babysit, so we can go out to dinner, or something like that, and then we could spend the night—" he darts a glance at Sherlock's face, takes a deep breath, "at a hotel maybe? You know, have some time for just the two of us."

Sherlock's blush deepens impossibly. "T-tonight?" he stammers. 

John searches his gaze. "If you want, whenever you want, whatever you want." He takes Sherlock's hand. "I want to spend the night with you, just us, but only if you want to. Sherlock, I—I will be happy with as much or as little as we can have together, and if you're not comfortable with anything more than—than what we're doing right now, I'm perfectly all right with it." He squeezes Sherlock's hand. "But if you wanted more, too, we—I —" John falters, worried by Sherlock's silence, who is swaying lightly, lulling Martha to sleep. "I just thought I'd ask, but it's all right if you don't—"

"John," Sherlock interrupts, his voice a low rumble, "do you mean— When you say spend the night, is it a euphemism for sex?"

A startled laugh escapes John. "Yes, yes it is. And, again, really, it's all right if you don't—"

"John! John," Sherlock interrupts again, "I very much do. Want. That. Sex. I thought that maybe you didn't. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, but if—" He inhales shakily, a wobbly grin on his lips. "Let's go out, today, tonight, as soon as possible."

"Uncomfortable? Why would I be uncomfortable with sex?"

"Not sex, but me, or rather, my gender." Sherlock looks down. He fusses with the edge of the baby wrap, as if to Make Martha more comfortable, but she's already sound asleep. He takes a deep breath, visibly gathering his courage. "I know that you're not gay, and I didn't dare hope that your affection for me was enough to—to overcome your reservations."

Johns heart gives a painful thud. "My reservations? Oh, Sherlock, I don't have any of those. I'm sorry I let you think— Listen, I'm not gay, but I'm not completely straight either. I don't want you to go another second thinking I'm not lusting after you like a bloody teenager. Because I am. Like I never lusted before. All right?"

"Yes, John, you've made yourself quite clear," Sherlock answers, his grin no longer wobbly. "And in the spirit of complete honesty, I'd like you to know that I, too, am lusting. After you and you only, obviously."

"Good," John says. He presses a kiss to Sherlock's knuckles, looking up at him through his eyelashes, his eyes full of intent. 

They go home smiling, their hands linked all the way. 

 

Mrs. Hudson jumps at the occasion to babysit, as if she's been waiting all along for the opportunity. She comes up to the flat with them, to get instructions on bottles, bath, and optimum bedtime rocking. All the while, she sends many a beaming smile their way, which John chooses not to examine to closely. 

Sherlock spends quite a lot of time getting ready, which leaves John to pack a small overnight bag and scramble for last-minute reservations. He contemplates booking a room at the Savoy or another luxury hotel of that kind for about two seconds, before deciding it would be too impersonal. He settles for a small hotel within walking distance of Baker Street, which, from the website's photos, looks charming and intimate. After that, he puts on his best shirt and jumper, combs his hair, and settles in the living room with Martha and Mrs. Hudson to wait for Sherlock. 

He takes the baby in his arms, and peers down at her, sleepy and trusting, looking into his eyes with the peaceful complacence of a well-fed newborn. He's surprised to feel a small tug of anxiety in his chest at the idea of leaving her without either him or Sherlock, but Mrs. Hudson is the most trustworthy babysitter they could have asked for, and he easily tamps down the excess of sentimentality. It helps that when Sherlock appears in the room, the only thing John can think of is getting him somewhere alone.

Sherlock is dressed in one of his customary suits, but instead of the usual black or dark grey, this one is a subtle, dark blue, with a very pale blue shirt. John knows nothing about suits or fashion, but compared to Sherlock's other clothes, this outfit looks somehow sharper, fancier. 

His staring is interrupted by Mrs. Hudson clapping her hands and exclaiming, "Oh, Sherlock, you look wonderful. Doesn't he look wonderful, John?"

John clears his throat, "Yes, hum, you look very nice."

Sherlock blushes furiously, "Right, well, we should go, we're going to be late."

"Late where?" John asks with a smirk. "You have no idea where we're going."

"I'm sure it will be perfect, John." Sherlock walks up to him, picks Martha up, deposits her into Mrs. Hudson's waiting arms, kisses both their cheeks and strides to the door. "Coming?"

"God, I better be," John mutters, picking up his messenger bag. 

Mrs. Hudson slaps his arm, "you bad man!" she exclaims, giggling a bit.

"I— I wasn't—"

"I'm sure, dear," she deadpans, before sobering. "Listen now, you be good to him, young man, or you'll be hearing from me."

"Of course," John answers dutifully, wondering why no one is ever worried about him. 

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellows from downstairs. 

"I'm coming!" he calls out. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, and don't hesitate to call, if there's anything."

"Of course, dear, but I'm sure I won't need to. Have a nice evening."

 

John finds Sherlock already out in the street. They've both elected to go without coats, since the April air is pleasantly mild, and seeing Sherlock outside without the Belstaff feels cozy, as if they're bringing their own little bubble of intimacy along with them. John takes his hand, and they begin to walk leisurely, their arms bumping together from time to time. The sun is low and the light warm, slanting in golden stripes across the pavement. Lime green buds dot the dark branches of trees, swaying in the cool evening breeze that heralds the chill of night. It's early spring, but spring nonetheless. John has never felt quite so at peace with the world. 

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asks after a few minutes of strolling in comfortable silence. 

"I thought we could try that fancy French place on Marylebone, they have a roof terrace. Could be nice?"

Sherlock hums approvingly, "I've heard great things."

"Mycroft?"

"Who else?"

They smile, but it's tender, born of their shared understanding rather than out of mockery. 

 

When they reach the restaurant, night has fallen, and the glow of the restaurant spills out onto the street, inviting. They stop a few feet from the door, and John hesitates to pull Sherlock further. Part of him doesn't want to expose whatever is growing between them to the lights and the chatter inside, doesn't want to let go of his hand. 

"Sherlock?" John says softly. "What if I told you I'm not that hungry?"

Sherlock smiles. "You know I'm never hungry. Tonight is no exception."

"We could go straight to the hotel, order room service later?"

Sherlock nods, looking down at their joined hands. John's belly does a little flip.

 

The small suite is dimly lit by two table lamps, but by mutual accord they don't turn on the overhead light. The bedroom is cozy, with simple wooden furniture and white linens, and a large window looking over a park. 

John deposits his bag at the foot of the bed, and rubs his hands together nervously. Before he has time to really work himself into a panic, Sherlock is there, right near. He puts his hand carefully on John's shoulder and leans into him, depositing a chaste kiss on his lips. Then he leans again, and the next kiss is decidedly less chaste. John moans and grabs Sherlock's hips, pulling him closer. The arousal that was quietly simmering in his abdomen all evening suddenly flares up. He tugs at Sherlock's waist and sends them both tumbling onto the bed, before climbing on top. His mouth finds Sherlock's again, unerring. Their kisses grow frantic, and John can feel that Sherlock is as desperately aroused as he is. But then Sherlock misses his lips and makes a little whimper, and John opens his eyes. 

Sherlock looks very tempting, tousled and panting, but also a little lost. 

"Hey, are you okay?" John asks gently. "I'm sorry, I meant to takes things slow."

"John," Sherlock says, his voice like gravel, "five years is no one's definition of fast."

"Oh." John rests his forehead against Sherlock's. "You too?"

"Yes, me too," Sherlock sighs, the sound ragged. "It would appear we've been colossal fools."

"God, Sherlock, we've lost so much time," John says, placing a soft kiss on his brow, another on his cheekbone.

"Don't you dare grow maudlin on me," Sherlock says sharply, although his eyes shine with unshed tears. He hikes a leg over John's hip and pulls him closer. "I was promised sex."

John chuckles. "Yes, yes. Come here."

They kiss, more solemnly this time, but things soon grow heated again. They rearrange themselves higher on the bed, shedding shoes and clothes. John helps Sherlock when his hands shake just a little too much to unbutton his shirt, soothing him with whispered words and quiet endearments. 'Love' is the first that tumbles from his mouth when he kisses down Sherlock's chest as it's revealed by the parting fabric. 'Beautiful' follows soon after, when they both find themselves finally, blessedly naked. He strokes a hand down Sherlock's flank, kisses his nipples, one after the other, as Sherlock curls around him, pulls his head closer with both hands. 'You're a marvel,' he murmurs when Sherlock is lying under him, smiling and pliant, eyes half-closed, hands caressing every inch of John's skin, biting lazily when a cheek or a shoulder comes close enough. 'Git,' John says then. 'Really?' he breathes, when Sherlock guides his hand lower. But later, when a crook of his fingers makes Sherlock's back arch off the bed, he can only gasp 'fuck.' And by the time he slides slowly, slowly into Sherlock, he's lost all his words; 'Sherlock' is the only one left, pulled again and again from his lips with a stutter or a groan, with every other thrust of his hips. 'John, John,' is Sherlock's only answer, as they grow sweaty and get lost in pleasure, as their moans stretch and fill the air. When Sherlock cries out and clenches around John, spilling between their bodies, he brings John over the edge with him. It's pure, racking pleasure, crashing over him in waves, it's blinding white bliss, it's the best bloody orgasm of his whole damn life. 

When he manages to peel one eye open, he searches Sherlock's face, and the smile of utter satisfaction he finds there fills him with love and wonder. He kisses his shoulder, nuzzles his neck. "All right, then?"

"All right? John, that was spectacular—" Sherlock tenses minutely. "Wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. The most spectacular, as a matter of fact." 

Sherlock melts into his side. "We'll have to do it again. Soon."

"Easy, there, let me catch my breath. We can sleep a bit, right?"

"I don't know how you expect me to sleep after that. That was—It was—"

"I'm flattered really, but I still need to rest a bit."

"If you must."

"It wasn't— Too much, was it? Too soon?"

"John, I couldn't have waited a minute longer."

"…I swear, you won't have to wait for anything from me anymore."

"Thank you."

"Except for your phone when it's right by your elbow, or a cup of tea when you're already in the kitchen. Or—"

"Yes, yes, I get it."

"I don't think you do, you cock. But I don't mind, really, you know that, right? I don't mind doing anything when it's for you."

"I know. I don't either, John."

"Here, let me. I'll bring back a warm towel."

"Be quick."

"Yes, your Highness."

…

"Sherlock?… Are you asleep already? I should've known. Just— God, you're useless… There, all better… Good night, love."

 

They sleep intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, or have constructive criticism, please consider leaving a comment, they're my lifeblood! :)


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